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A CHILD OF THE AGE. 




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Copyright^ 1894-, 

By Roberts Brothers. 



^Eniticrsitg ^rcss: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


TO 


A. L. A. 

Vita janua 7nortis, 

Let me think of you, O pure and radiant Spirit, as you 
were to me once, and as you are to me now. 

I thought of you as noble, great, god-like. I saw only the 
serene beauty of what was best in you, and it transfigured all 
your Work, and gave it a divine significance. Now I notify 
faults in you and in it, grave faults and limitations as grave. 
My worship of you is over, and I discriminate in my very 
admiration. My worship is over, but I sometimes feel as if 
my love were scarcely begun. And I perceive also that, even 
in my boyhood’s doting blindness, I yet saw clearly; for, to 
me as I was then, you were indeed wonderfully significant, 
noble, great, god-like. You were the father of my soul no 
less than of my body, and the yearning to achieve Works not 
altogether unworthy of the simple grandeur of truth and 
contemplation found its well-spring in the light and limpidity 
of your heavenly-brooding eyes. 

You never knew this, and now you will never know it. 

When I passed from the blinding midsummer light that lay 
deep upon the green strange earth and the blue and winding 
sea-gulf, and entered that shadowy room — when I closed the 
door, and, in all the fulness of my solitary anguish, bent and 
kissed you on the eyes and lips (You could not withdraw 
yourself from my embrace, O my love, 0 my god, for all your 


4 


Dedication. 


transcendent beauty of perfected life ! ), it was as if some 
unloved and unregarded Lazarus had kissed the dead lips and 
eyes of Christ. You were my Christ. You raised me from 
the dead, from the hell of the departed, and my faith was to 
accomplish the equal miracle of your own resurrection. 

But the disillusionment of the evolution of time, for all true 
Spirits, though it is grievous and implacable, has the most 
precious consolations. As I have lost Christ the Son of God, 
but .have gained Jesus the Son of Man, and count my loss for 
gain : so, O pure and radiant Spirit, I have but changed the 
impassioned idolization my boyhood lavished upon you for a 
chaster affection, an everlasting regard. 


886 . 


*‘Die and live again! For so long as thou 
hast not done so, thou art nought but a bewil- 
dered stranger upon the darksome earthP 


[Note. — This novel is the first of a series which Francis 
Adams intended, had he lived, to complete. In a letter, dated 
March 23, 1892, he says: “It was my modest little scheme to 
draw types of all the social life of the day. ‘ A Child of the 
Age,’ is the first of a series of novels and tales. Oh, I was going 
to do as big as Balzac that way! Fancy what a pretty scheme 
for a jackanapes of eighteen, and to have sweated at it all these 
years ! I finished the last but one of the novels (chronologically) 
on my way back from Australia [1890]. There are three novels 
to do yet and about eight short tales.” He also intended to 
work through the same cycle of characters in his Verse. The 
early chapters of the “Poetical Works” correspond to and 
illustrate this novel. 

In 1879, 3 -^ age of seventeen, Adams left Shrewsbury School 
— the Glastonbury of this novel — and spent the next two years 
chiefly in Paris. In 1880 he wrote the first draft of the book, 
and during the two years following, latterly in London and 
Ventnor, he recast and corrected his work. Under the title 
“Leicester, an Autobiography” it was published in 1884, while 
the author was in Australia. Some time after, on reading his 
novel critically as the work of another writer, he was surprised 
to find how truly he had depicted experiences which at the time 
of writing he had still to undergo. In another letter [1885] he 
says : “ I see its faults clearly, but entirely fail to reproduce its 
excellences. It is a remarkable book and it came to me to write 
it in a quite spontaneous and inspired way.” He said on another 
occasion : “ It was an honest attempt to give a candid revelation, 
but it was crude and morbid and not quite candid. Beware,” he 
adds, “of taking my characters for myself. I am terribly objec- 
tive ; even when I wrote ‘ Leicester,’ I wrote of one entirely 
unlike myself.” 

The book is now published in its final form as revised and to 
a great extent rewritten by its author a year or two before his 
death.] 


A CHILD OF THE AGE. 


CHAPTER I. 


I. 


T some time in my earliest childhood I must, I think, 



have lived near a windmill ; for I have, every now and 
then ever since I can remember, seen one in the middle of a 
tender yellowy-golden band of sunset on a sandy elevation. 
Somewhere, perhaps below in the house in which I am, a 
canary, cageless, with upward-throbbing throat, sings. 

And then I know a darker vision : a darker vision of a 
slanting planked floor, with an uncertain atmosphere therein, 
and a sound from thereout, as of a ship on the sea. A dim- 
rayed lamp oscillates in the middle. A woman is up in one 
of the berths, soothing and giving suck to a baby fractious 
with sleep and misery. In the far corner is a huddled tar- 
tan-petticoated lump-round, with two protruding bare knees, 
— a child unkempt, dirty, miserable, afraid of some heavy 
coming footstep. I know in some way that I am the child. 

And then comes yet another vision, but lighter and in a 
broader scene. A red-cheeked woman rolls a perambulator 
and a quiet little boy down a cindery path in the shine of a 
moist sunset. They stop by a gray, sweating, barred gate. 
(There are four or five bars: not less.) 

In a little, the boy struggles out from the tarpaulin of the 
perambulator on to the clammy earth, crosses the tall. wet 


8 


A Child of the Age. 

rank grasses, climbs on to the gate, and looks at a band of 
tender yellowy-gold down by the horizon, which is to him a 
new revelation of his earliest dreams. For on that day tliat 
tender yellowy-gold band and far sky of light seem to him 
to contain faint outlines of great, white-winged angels: be- 
yond, a chasm of clearer, purer light ; and beyond, — God. 

Now everything changes. My next recollection of a cer- 
tain fixed occasion brings with it an acquaintance — often 
strangely minute and distinct — of myself and of the life 
that was around me. Thus : — 

From standing with some wistfulness in the twilight road 
I turn slowly away, shoulders rounded, collar awry, hands 
deep in my pockets: slouch to the right, along the second 
side (at right angles to the road) of the wall, and there stop 
— thinking. 

A white duck hurries waddling, filled with anxiousness, 
across the grass further on, and paddles her bill in the edge 
of the stream. And I walk with big strides till I am par- 
allel to her, reach the wooden bridge (duck the "while pad- 
dling her bill in the stream’s border of watery mud), give 
one look at a hole in the bank, from which trickles the 
thick, inky, sluggish drain-fluid, and enter the porch. 

No one in the kitchen. The clock, tick-tacking with 
big, silent swing; the plates, with their ruddy, flickering 
firelight, in rows; the lamp not lit yet. 

Then I hear a motion as of some one shoving a jar on to 
a shelf in the pantry, cross quickly through the kitchen, 
down the red-tiled passage (up come two or three loose 
tiles, with a collapsed fall), catching a semi-earthy smell 
from under the cellar door (some one ’s in the pantry ; 
Anne, I think), run upstairs, two steps at a time, turn 
down the dark passage, reach the ladder foot, climb up, 
shove open the door, enter the dim garret, go on to the 
window, look out over the graveyard, and then turn and 
begin to take in, half- unconsciously , the red-painted lines 


A Child of the Age. 9 

on the card over the washing-stand, — “I love them that 
love Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me.” 

At that I turn again, go back to the window, and, with 
a knee on the white-painted window-sill, look out into the 
twilight sky, in which I see, vaguely, the tall, dark, wild 
rook-trees, with their black, broad tops, the many grave- 
stones, and the small church to the right. 

Then : — 

“ Ber-tie! ” 

The word, rising a note, startles me, half- thrills me. 
Anne is at the foot of the ladder. 

Up she steps, shoves the door open altogether, and at 
once begins: — 

“Lor’, Master Bertie! why, you look as if you’d bin 
seein’ a ghost out in the graveyard, you do. Gracious 
alive, the eyes of him! Did you ever now?. . .” 

“ What do you want ? ” I ask. “ If you want me for tea, 
I hn not coming. Tell Mrs. Purchis so.” 

Anne urges that Mrs. Purchis is in such a bad temper 
this evening. And it being his last night, too, eh ? And 
it is n’t good for him to drop off his victuals like that, and 
he going away to school to-morrow, and hasn’t eat any- 
tliing to speak of this week, — considerin’. 

I take to my old attitude, with my knee upon the white- 
painted window-sill, now faint and dim, and look through 
the dark rook-trees, into the darkening fields. Anne con- 
tinues: “ Which she does hope he does n’t bear any malice. 
Master Bertie, and him going away to-morrow, to school, 
and might never see her again, but they both be dead and 
buried before then; and if it wasn’t that . . .” (Then, 
sharply:) “But she always did say, and we ’d see who was 
right or not, that that boy would come to no — ” 

I leap to her. “I will throw you down the ladder,” I 
say, catching her by the arm, “ if you don’t go . . 

She, rather frightened, goes. 


10 


A Child of the Age. 


All that evening I sat on the sill, looking out across the 
churchyard, to the hedge and the rook-trees. The black 
shadows grew broader and deeper. There was no moon. 
A light wind was singing through a crack in the lead- 
work, close by my ear. And at last, Timothy Goodwin, 
the sexton, came limping along the London Koad, with a 
lantern, unlocked the gates, locked them again, carefully, 
after him, limped to old Mr. Atkin’s grave, and began cut- 
ting the grass on it with a clinking shears, having put 
down the lantern by him. 

I watched him, and thought about things. 

Presently he lifted up his light, put it down again, and 
began on another patch. Then he took up his light, and 
stood for a moment, brushing the knees of his corduroys 
with his hand, then turned, and limped towards the gates. 
I smiled through the tears that were in my eyes and on my 
cheeks. If I had been there with old Timothy, I would 
have put my arms round his neck and kissed him. 

On he limped over the grass, through the tombs, over the 
sanded walk, the lantern-light passing before him; till now 
he has reached the gates, unlocked them, has gone out, 
relocked them. And there he goes, jogging over furrows 
and hollows like a Will-o’-the-wisp, up the London Eoad. 

The clock in the square dark church-tower struck out the 
hour. 

An impulse came to me. I went to the bed, and down on 
to my knees. But then remembering that He — God — 
was up above in the sky, I clasped my two hands together, 
and looked up to Him, and said, — 

“Hear God, You are a long, long way aw’ay from me; 
right up in the deep, blue sky, higher than all the dark- 
ness, and farther away than even the sun and the moon and 
the stars. But I love You! oh, I love You! because You 
know everything I think about, and everything that I want 
to do. And I pray that You won’t let me die till I am 


11 


A Child of the Age. 

very old and liave done all the things I want to do. But 
please help me to he a great man. Through Jesus Christ, 
our blessM Lord, Amen.” 

Then I got up and undressed, and slipping into bed, was 
soon asleep. 

The next morning Mr. Purchis and I came up by train 
to some large station, where we got out and crossed to 
another platform. As we were going, he, having me by 
the hand, told me to tie my white woollen comforter round 
my arm, so that “ the Colonel’s man ” might know me at 
the other end. I was put into a third-class compartment. 
Mr. Purchis gave me a shake by the hand, and turned and 
went away down the platform. I did not care to watch 
him more than a few yards or so. I did not care to look 
at the other passengers. It all seemed like a sort of dream, 
and 1 did not think I was going anywhere in particular. 

There were a good many other people in the carriage. 
Some got in, some got out. I did n’t notice them much. 

After a long time (it was growing darker now) an old 
lady next me, who ’d been asleep, awoke, and took a basket 
from under the seat and put it upon her knees; and, in a 
little, said to me that we were “ close to London now, my 
dear.” I said, “Thank you!” and looked out of the 
window. 

Then the train stopped by a long planked platform, and 
the people (three now) all rose up. A clergyman got out 
first and pulled a glazed bag along the floor down to him. 
Then the old lady got out, and her daughter (as I thought) 
handed her down the basket, and got out too. 

After a little I went up to the other window and pressed 
my face against the pane, and looked for “ the Colonel’s 
man.” Then I thought that he mightn’t be able to know 
me without the white-comfortered arm, so I put it out 
through the door, and waited. 


12 


A Child of the Age. 


All at once a man, with thin legs in brown trousers, 
came out from between two old ladies, with band-boxes, 
right up to me. He touched his hat. This was “ the 
ColonePs man.” 

We took a cab and went across London, and stopped in a 
square, before another large station; but not so large a one 
as the first. A porter undid the door, and we got out; and 
the box was taken down, and put on to a trolly, and we 
followed it into the station. There it was tilted beside two 
others, on to its head (the trolly, I mean), and we had ten 
minutes to wait before the train-gate was open. 

“ The ColonePs man ” began talking to the porter about 
something. I went on a little, and stood and looked at 
some pictures hung up by a newspaper stall. One was of 
a great ship in the docks, going to be launched. As I was 
looking, — 

“ Come along,” said “ the ColonePs man,” taking me by 
the hand, “ the gate ’s open.” 

We went along the platform together, and got into a car- 
riage pretty far up. I sat silent. And every now and 
then my eyelids drooped, and my head moved forward, and 
I nearly fell. I should very much like to have lain down 
and gone to sleep in a cool, clean, white bed. 

At last we came, after many short stops, to a stop, 
and “ the ColonePs man ” put his hand on my arm ; and then 
I was lifted down, and we went out, I just behind him, 
a porter carrying the box. At the door, in the cool even- 
ing wind, “ the ColonePs man ” agreed with a boy to take 
the box up to Park Koad for sixpence. And we all set oft'. 

After a little “ the ColonePs man ” and I wore ahead. 
It was a steep hill, and I felt rather tired, but not so sleepy 
now. We went on slowly, till he stopped, and said, — 

“ Give us a hand. It is a bit of a pull up this hill, 
young ’un, ain’t it — eh?” 

I gave him my hand, and we went on again, till, passing 


13 


A Child of the Age. 

through the light of a tall lamp-post, and through an open 
gate, we stood on the flagstone before a low doorway. “ The 
Colonel’s man ” pulled at the bell-handle. A bell rang. 
Then, in a little, we heard steps, and the door was opened 
by a maid with a white apron and cap. 

“Well, good-bye, mi lad,” said “the Colonel’s man,” 
turning to me. “ I ’m about at the end of my part o’ the 
business, I reckon. Good luck to ye, sir, good luck to ye ! ” 

He put his hand on my shoulder, and passed out through 
the gate, and into the darkness. I looked after him, 
slowly. The maid stamped her feet on the ground. 

“ Where ’s your box ? ” said she. 

At that moment the boy with the wheelbarrow and the 
box appeared under the lamp-post at the corner, some little 
way off. She must have seen him. 

“ Oh, that ’s it,” said she. “ I suppose he ’s paid all 
right? ” 

“Yes, Hhe Colonel’s man ’ paid him,” I said. 

“ Then you ’d better go into the dining-room. Give us 
your keys first.” (I found and gave her the key of mv 
box.) “That’s it.” She pointed to the door in the left 
side of the hall. 

I crossed the oil-cloth carpet, opened the door, and went 
in. A large fire was burning with a flickering light. It 
flickered on the black, glazy table-cloth of a long, thin 
table, in the middle of the room, and on another running 
at right angles to it, across the right side of the room, in a 
broad, half -bay window. Outside there was a veranda, 
and the dark evening. 

I went to the bench, and, half upon it, leaned my face 
in my arms, on the cool table-cloth. The things around 
me were all in a sort of noise above my ears. I could not 
weep soft tears. The tears were dried behind my eyes. 
But, after a little, I seemed to grow dreary, and could have 
wished to sleep. . . . 


14 


A Child of the Age. 

I took to no one. One or two fellows made up to me a 
little, at first; but I just answered them and turned away, 
neither caring to talk to them or let them talk to me. It 
was not that I was homesick; I had no home. I did not 
know what it was. 

I like Wallace better than any of the others. Neither 
of us ever have jam or cake. He has not even threepence 
a week, like me. He loves his little belly. He ’ll 
always go to Harris’s, the grub shop, for any one who ’ll 
give him a good big bit of the stuff they ’re getting. (Of 
course you ’re licked if you ’re caught going, except on 
Saturdays and Wednesdays, from two to three.) And I 
have often told him that I think it is beastly of him to do 
it; but he does n’t care, so long as he gets the grub. 
That ’s one reason why I don’t care to talk to him about 
some things I know of. I tell him tales, and all that; but 
that ’s difterent. 

Whittaker is an old beast. He ’s fond of caning us, 
I ’m sure. When you go into the library on Saturdays, 
after school, to get three strokes, if you ’ve had more than 
twelve mistakes in dictation, he won’t let you kneel down 
loose, aS if you were praying, but he makes you bend up 
over till you ’re quite tight. It ’s very nasty going tight 
again after the first one. 

Mrs. Whittaker is a humbug. She says, “ umble ” and 
“ otel ” and “ ospital,” and says it ’s right to say them that 
way. She listens to what the fellows say, and then tells 
the Reverend, and they catch it. Likewise she reads fel- 
lows’ letters. She corrects fellows’ letters home, and 
makes them say that Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker are very 
kind to them, and other things. Besides, she tells lies. 
She has two babies, little brats that squawl. I hate her. 

I don’t mind the work much, especially the history. 
Latin ’s rather rot, and so is geography and arithmetic. I 
like poetry best. We have a book full of it. The first 


15 


A Child of the Age. 

poem is called “The Universal Prayer,” by A. Pope. 
The one I like best is called “A Psalm of Life,” by H. 
W. Longfellow. 

One Saturday night, when Cookie was bathing me, — 
you see, that particular night I was rather funny, having 
been out on the Heath alone (of course I should have been 
punished, perhaps licked, if I ’d been caught. We were 
never allowed out except we got leave, in twos), and 
thinking about all sorts of things, and particularly, that 1 
should die before I was twenty. So, as Cookie was bath- 
ing me, I asked her if she knew what 

“ For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem ** 

meant. She did n’t. Then I asked her about the other 
things in it, one by one; but she didn’t seem to under- 
stand them much, either. 

Well, after I ’d gone up to the dormitory (I was first 
that night), while the others were up at prayers, she came 
in quite quietly as I was lying looking at the white ceil- 
ing, and sat down on the bed by me, and took out a little, 
round, hot pasty, and said I was to eat it while she was 
cutting my nails. So she drew back the cubicle curtain, 
and I got out of the clothes, and she began to cut my nails. 
And while I was sitting in that way, eating the hot pasty, 
I thought I ’d like to tell her the “Psalm of Life; ” so I 
asked her if she ’d care to hear it. She said, “ Yes.” So 
I began to tell it her. She ’d finished cutting by the time 
I ’d got about half through, and sat with my foot in her 
lap, looking at me till I ’d done it. Then we heard them 
coming down from prayers; so she told me to jump into 
bed, and tucked me up, and gave me a kiss, and said, — 

“ I hope it won’t make you conceited. Master Leicester, 
but you ’re the best-looking of the boarders. And I hope 
you ’ll be happy.” 


16 


A Child of the Age. 

I didn’t think of this till Wallace told me, on Monday 
night, that Cookie had left. And afterwards, Mrs. Whit- 
taker said Cookie was a thief, and had stolen a lot of her 
things; but I didn’t believe it. 

At the end of the term we were examined by a gentle- 
man who came from Glastonbury School, where Whittaker 
was when he was a kid. Blake was his name. I liked 
him. We were all examined together in English and 
Scripture, and he said that I was the brightest boy of tlie 
lot; and he said it to the Keverend, too, when he came in 
at one o’clock, and they were standing talking together at 
the door. 

The next day was speech-day. We most of us had 
pieces of poetry — Shakespeare, or out of the poetry -hook 
— to say. We were supposed to choose our own pieces. I 
was just head of my form by the term marks (there were 
only five in it, — Black, Campbell, Morris, Wallace, and 
I), and 1 chose the “ Psalm of Life.” Currie, the under- 
master, didn’t mind, and so I learned it again, a little 
excited. I mean, I read it over with the book, and re- 
peated it again and again, to make sure I had n’t forgotten 
any of it. 

I sat in my place, waiting for my turn, with my lips 
rather dry, and every now and then I shivered as if a 
draught came upon me through an opened door; but I 
wasn’t really afraid. I was a little excited, I say; and 
yet it seemed somehow like a dream, and I could n’t 
notice any one’s face. 

At last my turn came. It was after Whitman’s. I got 
up, shivering, and I thought I should n’t have breath to 
say it all with. But when I got up on to the green -baize 
platform, and stood in the middle, and looked down over 
them, — the ladies in their white and colored dresses, and 
the men, and the boys, — all at once the shivering went 
away from me altogether, and I turned my head straight to 


A Child of the Age. 17 

Mr. Blake, at the table at the side, and smiled to him. 
He smiled too, hut only in his eyes. And I began : — 

Tell me not in mournful numbers, 

‘ Life is but an empty dream ! ’ 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem.” 

And my voice rose, growing stronger and clearer. And 
at last I did not see anything there at all, not even the 
colored mass of the dresses; but only a warm gold air 
all round me, and something singing softly all round me 
like far-off, sunshiny water. 

Then all at once I laughed, and, though the tears were 
quite full in my eyes, I could have shouted out, I felt so 
bold and brave and ready for it all ; even for when I should 
have to die and be buried in the cold, dark earth. And 
my voice rang as I said, — 

** Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints in the sands of time ; 

** Footprints that perhaps another, 

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main. 

Some forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

** Let us then be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 

Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait.” 


Towards the end I had grown sadder a little; and, now 
it was all said and over, I stood there for a moment, with 
my head bent down, looking at the ground of the room 
below the green-baize platform. It seemed some time, 
but I dare say it was only a moment; but when they all 

2 


18 


A Child of the Age. 

began to clap, and I looked np qnickly, and saw them all 
round me, I hated them all in my heart, and could have 
seen them die, and not stirred. Not all! All hut one, — 
Mr. Blake. I seemed to love him a little. 

And he nodded and smiled to me again with his eyes, 
and I smiled back to him as I went down. And after that 
I did not hate the others any more, for I did not think of 
them. 

The next thing I remember was that I heard the Kev- 
erend saying, — 

“ This prize is adjudged by Mr. Blake to Leicester; but, 
as he is only a new boy this term, he retires in favor of 
Whitman (whose recitation of Marc Antony’s speech over 
the body of Caesar is highly creditable to him), and he 
receives the certificate.” 

I cared neither for the prize nor for the certificate. I do 
not quite know what I was thinking about; but it was 
about something very far away, by the tops of blue misty 
mountains, and down the middle trickled a black stream 
from bowl to bowl. It was very sweet. So that when the 
prize-giving was over, and they went out, crowding, I still 
sat in my place for a little, puzzled because the mountain 
and the black stream had gone away with a trail of mist. 

Then, as I sat like that, thinking about the trail of mist 
that went away with the mountain and the stream, Mr. 
Blake came, bending his head, in through the far doorway. 
I looked at him. 

Seeing me, he stepped down the passage between the 
chairs, and came to me on the form, and put his hand on 
to my shoulder lightly, and smiled with his lips. But I 
couldn’t smile back again, for the mountain and the stream 
had gone away from me. 

“You did well, little man,” he said, .at last. “Where 
did you learn to recite poetry like that ? ” 

“Yes, but I did not understand it all,” I said; “the 


19 


A Child of the Age. 

two first verses, I mean, and I don’t care for the rest, till 
the last bit. But that is grand! ” I looked up into his 
eyes. 

He patted my shoulder twice, gently. 

“You go too quick, — you go too quick, child! What 
can’t you understand in the first two verses 1 ” 

“ ‘ And the soul is dead that slumbers.' 

“ Well ? ” 

“ What does it mean ? ” 

“ And that the soul, which only slumbers, is dead.” 

“ But what does that mean ? ” 

“ Dead , — that is, that there is an end of it. Some 
people — such foolish people — say that when you die 
there is an end of you, — that is, that you have no soul. 
No such place as heaven! No such person as God! Long- 
fellow says: ‘Do not tell me that man’s soul — which 
when we die only slumbers and will awake, perhaps soon, 
perhaps late, perhaps never at all, in a perfected state of 
beauty in heaven — is dead, finished, ended, over, when a 
man dies and his body corrupts and turns into dust.’ . . . 
Do you see 1 ” 

“Yes,” I said, “I see.” 

There was a pause for a moment. Then: “ Would you 
like to go to Glastonbury when you are older ? ” he said. ’ 

“ Is Glastonbury a big school 1 How many fellows are 
there ? ” I asked. 

“Not so big as many others, — my old school, for in- 
stance, Winchester. But there are quite enough, — two 
hundred. What do you think ? ” 

“ Would you he there ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I should be there.” He did not seem 
to he thinking about me then. 

I looked at him. My look seemed to recall him from 
somewhere. 


20 


A Child of the Age. 

“Listen,” he said, suddenly, brightening and bending 
down. “ Don’t brood so much, little man. You hear me, 
don’t you? Don’t go thinking about things till they grow 
hateful to you. Try to be bright and merry. Be with the 
other fellows more. ... I was right, there? You aren’t 
much? They’re such fools, hey?” (He laughed.) 

“ Well, you mustn’t mind that. You ’re not always wise, 
are you? You don’t think I ’m sermoning you? ” 

“ No,” I said, “ I see.” 

A pause. 

He smiled again. 

“ At any rate,” he said, and pinched my cheek gently, 
“ Mr. Whittaker has given me permission to write to your 
guardian. Colonel James, as well as promised to write 
himself, about your going to Glastonbury. You would 
like to go ? ” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I should, — if you would be there.” 

“ In all probability, I should,” he said. 

“I,” I began, “ I . . .” but did not go on. 

And it was somehow with this that we parted. 

I watched him go up along the passage between the 
chairs and, bending, through the far door. And then I 
felt that I wished I had said something to him; but I did 
not know what. 

In the holidays we — Wallace and I — had breakfast 
and dinner with the Reverend and Mrs. W., but had our 
tea alone. I liked that; but Wallace talked too much. 
And we might go out as we liked, on to the Heath or into 
Greenwich Park, but not down into the town. Three or 
four times I chanced it, and went to the Painted Chamber, 
which Campbell had told me of, saying that there were 
fine pictures of sea-fights there, and some of Nelson. I 
liked to be there. I liked most of all to look at the 
'picture of Nelson being taken up into heaven; for I 


A Child of the Age. 


21 


tlionght I too should be taken up into heaven some day 
when I had done great things and was dead. Then there 
was the picture of him all bloody and wounded, as he ran 
up on deck, in the middle of the fight. And the relics — 
I liked the holidays. 

Next term wasn’t much different from last, except that 
some of the fellows were allowed, in June and July, to 
go down to the Greenwich baths early on two mornings in 
the week to bathe. I tried to get the Keverend to let me 
go, hut he would n’t. 

In the next holidays he, and Mrs. W. , and the brats, 
and Jane (the new cook) went to the sea-side, leaving 
Alice (the maid) to look after us two. Thomas (the page- 
hoy) did n’t stay in the house then. I don’t know why. 
I liked that better still. I was out almost all day long, 
on the Heath, in the Park, down by the river. Once I 
went up the river as far as Westminster, in a boat. That 
was rare sport. Some men played on a harp and a clarionet, 
and the music almost made me cry. Wallace hadn’t the 
pluck to come, though Alice offered to lend him the money. 

The next term was very had. I had chilblains; only on 
the feet, though. Wallace had them on his hands and 
ears. And it was so cold and dull in the Christmas holi- 
days that I was almost glad when the term began again. 

A week after it had begun I had a letter from Colonel 
James, and Mrs. W. said I must answer it. So I had 
to write an answer in prep, one night, and show it to 
Mrs. W. after prayers, in the drawing-room. She said it 
was “so peculiar,” and scratched out most of it, and told 
me what else to write. So next day I made a fair copy, 
and, having shown it her, it was put in an envelope, which 
I directed as she read out and spelled to me; and then she 
put a stamp on it, and I went out and posted it. 

Mr. Blake did n’t come to examine us this term. An- 
other gentleman did, — Mr. Saunders, — a friend of the 


22 


A Child of the Age. 

Eeverend’s, who ’d been at Oxford with liim. But tlie 
first day of the holidays I had a letter from Mr. Blake, 
and he said that he was sorry he had n’t written to me 
before; he had often thought about it, but he had such a 
great deal to do that he found it very hard to write to any 
one. Perhaps when I had grown up, and had a great deal 
to do, I should find it the same. But what he was sorriest 
about was that he was going away from Glastonbury, to 
another school, — Penhurst, — and so we should not see 
one another there as he had hoped, and, he hoped, 1 had 
hoped we should; but I would perhaps find when I got 
there that I was not quite a stranger, but that there was at 
least one fellow who would take an interest in me and 
help me, as much as it was good that I should be helped. 
And I was to be sure and write to him whenever I liked, 
for he would always be glad to hear from me. I thought 
it was a very kind letter, and it almost made me cry, — 
that about being sure to write to him whenever I liked, 
for he would always be glad to hear from me. I hadn’t 
known till then that I was going to Glastonbury; but, 
when I asked the Reverend if 1 Avas, he said, “ Yes, in 
another two years or so, perhaps.” But T didn’t write to 
Mr. Blake; I didn’t like to, somehoAV. 

In the midsummer term I Avas allowed to go to the 
GreeuAvich baths, in the early mornings, tAvice a week, 
Avith the fellows that Avent. Langholm, a big fellow of 
eighteen, Avho ’d been at a public school, promised the 
Reverend he ’d look after me and teach me to SAvim. So 
he did. And I soon learned. And he said I was the 
pluckiest little devil he ever saw in his life. I liked him 
to say that. 

In the middle of the next midsummer term, I had a 
letter from Colonel James. (He used only to write to me . 
once a year, about Christmas.) He told me that I Avas 


23 


A Child of the Age. 

going to Glastonbury next term, and a lot of stuff about 
industriously pursuing my studies, and that “ a good know- 
ledge of the classics, more especially of Cicero, was the 
foundation of all that was worth knowing in the huma- 
niora ; ” which I didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. 
Cicero was rather a fool, I think. Mrs. Whittaker, he 
said, would see that my clothes, etc., were in a fit condi- 
tion, and she had also been informed that I might have 
two shillings over and above my usual pocket-money. I 
felt rather older after that. I did n’t tell any one about it. 
though. The Whittakers went away to the seaside, as 
usual, leaving Wallace and me with Margaret, the new 
maid. (There were always new maids,) I enjoyed these 
holidays. I bought a pipe and some tobacco, and smoked 
it one day in Greenwich Park; but I was very nearly ill 
and very dizzy, and thought I would never do it again. I 
did, though, not liking to be beaten by it; but at last I 
found the tobacco and matches came expensive, and so left 
off. 

The Whittakers came back early in September, and then 
I had a new suit bought, and a lot of shirts and drawers 
and things, so as to be ready to go to Glastonbury. 

II. 

At Glastonbury I first kept a diary. Here is an extract 
from it: — 

“ r don’t like any of the fellows here. The fellows in my 
study are fools, all in the third form, and so of course we are 
always having our study windows catapulted, and then get it 
stopped out of allowance (pocket-money). I have n’t had a 
penny since I came, and that ’s a month 1 Then look at the big 
fellows 1 They none of them care a bit about fairness ! 1 was 

sitting on the table in the hall yesterday evening after call -over, 
when Leslie, a big bully in the Remove, shoved me off as he was 


24 


A Child of the Age. 


going by, for nothing at all ! I fell on to the form, and the form 
went over, and I hit my head against one of the iron posts. 1 
got up and ran after him up the stairs, and caught him up in the 
passage just before the door of his bedroom. Then I said to him, 
‘I beg your pardon, Leslie; but why did you shove me off the 
table? I did nothing to you.’ In a moment he said, ‘What 
damned cheek I’ (All the fellows say ‘damn’ here. No one 
thinks anything of it.) And caught me a kick would have 
sent me over, if it had n’t been for the wall. As it was, I got my 
coat all whited, and bumped my head again on the other side.” 

I kept this diary for the first month I was at Glaston- 
bury. After that repetitions become more frequent; and 
at last, one half-holiday late in October, more than a 
week behind, 1 in a pet gave it up, and put the book 
containing it at the back of my locker in the hall. 

The term dragged on wearily. 

It grew colder and colder. I got chilblains, first on my 
feet and then on my hands, — at last suffering torments 
with them. And the bread and meat were often quite 
uneatable; and what else was there to live on? 

It was a somewhat strange feeling of pleasure, I remem- 
ber, that which came over me after I had eaten my first 
dinner in the holidays, in the house of INIr. Jones, the 
solicitor. 1 suppose Colonel James paid for me. I didn’t 
care for them. Mr. Jones was only at home in the even- 
ings, and didn’t speak to me much then. But I was 
happy enough; for 1 could just go where I liked, and Mrs. 
Jones did n’t bother if I did n’t come into lunch in the 
middle of the day, so long as I told her I was n’t going to. 
At first I felt rather odd going “ out of bounds; ” but that 
wore off. Mrs. Jones is a fat lady, good-humored, and, 
altogether, not bad; but she ’s always asking me questions 
about myself, and Craven, and Mrs. Craven, and the other 
masters, and the ladies they ’re married to. As if I knew 
anything about them! 


25 


A Child of the Age. 

The snow was down then everywhere. It was cold, 
too; but I had some new, thick, red woollen gloves, and 
my chilblains were much better, and 1 did n’t mind it. 
One day I asked Eliza, the cook (I liked her pretty well; 
she reminded me of Cookie) , to give me some bread and 
butter and an apple; for the sun was shining, and I wanted 
to go out for a long walk into the country. I like walking 
along the roads like that, looking at the snow all glisten- 
ing, and now and then a little bird hopping about, or, out 
by Raymond wood, even a rabbit loppetting along over the 
white under the trees. Weil, after I ’d been walking some 
way, a big man, cracking a whip in front of a horse and a 
manure-cart, caught me up, and I walked beside him a 
little (for he had a nice face), till he spoke to me. And 
then we got on so well together that I told him a great 
many things that I had read in books, about lions and 
tigers and rhinoceroses and boa-constrictors, and many other 
animals, and, at last, that I myself was writing a book in 
which a good many of these things I had been telling him 
were to be introduced. But more especially, I told him 
about the snakes, some of which were to try to stop Ju- 
gurtha in a secret passage as he was coming to kill his 
brother; for Jugurtha was the name of the hero. He was 
an illegitimate son of Mastanabal, King of Numidia, — 
that meant that his father and mother weren’t married; 
but in those days, many, many hundreds of years before 
our blessed Lord came, people sometimes did have children 
without being married. I had read about some others like 
that, in the Classical Dictionary. 

But the carter kept silence, and I, fearing from this, 
and a look I had taken at his face, that there was some 
weakness in this early stage of my book, hastened to add 
that I knew it was a little funny, — that part; but as it 
happened hundreds of years before our blessed Lord came, 
or any of us were born, perhaps it would n’t matter so 


26 


A Child of the Age. 

much, after alL The carter agreed that “ it was odd, too, 
at they early times ! ” which rather relieved me. 

It could n’t have been much further on than that that I 
said good-bye to him, and turned back to get borne again. 
But I lost my way. 

It was colder now, and darker. The sunlight had gone 
away from everything but a few clouds behind, overhead; 
and after a little, when I turned to look, it had gone away 
from all of them but two. I trudged on again. After 
another little, I began to feel my legs tired, and turned 
back again to see about the sunlight. It was all gone now. 
Then I wished I was at home. But the shadows were all 
coming down thicker and thicker, and the road was so 
slippery, and my legs more tired and more tired, and I 
could n’t hold my shoulders up. Then I saw a man com- 
ing along on the left side of the road, under the trees, and 
was afraid; then forgot that, and went on up to him. But 
when I saw him nearer, and, at last, what an old man he 
was, with bleared eyes and a red neck-cloth tied round his 
throat, although I was almost sure I ’d lost the way, I was 
afraid he was going to catch hold of me; so how dare X 
stop and say to him, “ Can you tell me, please, which is 
the road’ to Glastonbury?” He went on by me, and I 
went on by him, and under the trees, and on along the 
road and he did nothing. 

It was almost dark — black, I mean — when I came to a 
farm. I had met no one else but the old man with the 
bleared eyes and the red neck-cloth. I was very tired. 

I stopped at a gate and looked into the farm-yard, where 
the pond was frozen over, and a light shone in one of the 
small farm windows. I did not like to go in and ask any 
one to tell me the way; besides, I had begun to think 
about some of the fellows, and what they had done to me, 
till I hated almost everybody, and could have lain down 
in the snow and gone to sleep and died, and been carried 
up by angels, past the moon, into heaven. 


A Child of the Age. 


27 


All at once a woman ran out, with a flutter in her dress, 
across the yard, into a dark outhouse. 1 did not stir. I 
stood thinking about dying and being buried. And so, 
in a little, coming back more slowly, she saw me stand- 
ing there with bent head, looking through the second 
gate-bar. 

She stopped; then came and asked me what I wanted? 
And then, somehow, she had the gate open, and was trying 
to get me in by the hand, and I pulling back a little. 

Well, the end of it was that we went together up the 
yard to the door by the small window with the light in it, 
and in, into the light warm kitchen. And she sat me 
down in a chair by the Are, and, when I would n’t answer 
anything to her, but turned away my head, I don’t know 
quite why (but I still wished I were dead and buried, and 
no one knew anything about me), she got up again, and cut 
a thick piece of bread, and put a lot of butter upon it, and 
then sugar, and went with a glass, and brought it back 
full of warm milk, and came and knelt down by me again, 
and began to coax me. And now there was a big lump in 
my throat, and I kept swallowing it; but it kept coming 
back again. And at last, when I wouldn’t look at her, 
she put down the bread and butter and sugar and the milk 
on the piece of carpet, and lifted up my face, with her hand 
under my chin, and laughed into my face with hers, — her 
lips and her eyes, — and then called me “ A saucy boy,” 
and gave me a kiss. (And how fresh and red and soft her 
lips were!) Why, I just threw my arms round her neck, 
and began crying and laughing, and laughing and crying, 
and wondering where I ’d been to all this time, and in the 
end gave her a kiss on the lips, and we were great friends. 

1 don’t know how it happened, but somehow or other I 
told her all about Robinson Crusoe, and ever so many 
other things besides. And then her liusband, John, came 
in. And, when I was going away with John, she put two 


28 


A Child of the Age. 

great apples, one into each of my trouser pockets, and said 
1 must be sure and come and see her again, and tell her 
some more about ‘ all they fine things in the pictur’ books.” 
And so John and I set otf together, turning every now and 
then to wave our hands to Mary at the door, in the middle 
of the light, and she waving hers, till the road wound 
round, and we went by it, and could n’t see her any more. 
Then I began to be tired again, and in a little John 
lifted me up onto his back, and I fell asleep, I suppose, 
and did n’t wake up till he put me down on Mr. Jones’s 
doorstep. 

And so we parted. For the term began two days after 
that, and, as they were both snow-stormy, Mrs. Jones 
wouldn’t let me go out to see Mary and John. And I did 
not know how to write to them, for they had n’t told me 
where to. I had quite forgotten about its being so near 
the end of the holidays. 

We had a new monitor in the bedroom this term, — 
Bruce. Martin, the old one, had left. Every one called 
him a surly devil, but I did n’t mind him so much. This 
was how my liking for him began. One day, early in the 
term, he was taking Lower Round. Football is compulsory. 
There are three Rounds, — Upp6r, Lower, and Middle. On^ 
or two fellows in the Team, or pretty high up in the Sec- 
ond Fifteen, always “ take ” Middle and Lower Round, — 
that is, they see the small boys play up, kicking them, etc. 
Well, one day he was taking Lower Round, when Leslie, 
who ’s in the Team too, took to playing back on the other 
side, so as to show off. Then I thought I ’d like to see if 
I could n’t charge him, and when a chance came, and 
Leslie had the ball and was dribbling past a lot of us 
small boys, I ran at him with all my might, and we both 
went over. But I got the cramp. He was up and off 
again pretty quickly; but, of course, I couldn’t do much 
but sprawl about. But Bruce, who must have been close 


29 


A Child of the Age. 

beliind, came np and put his hands under my armpits, and 
lifted me up like a child (1 remember how I somehow 
liked to be lifted up in that way by him), and asked, 
was I hurt ? The game had swept off to the other side of 
the field. 

“ No,” I said, looking up into his face, “ it ’s only the 
cramp in my calf. It dl go in a moment. I ’ve had it 
before like that.” 

He made me play three-quarters back for the rest of the 
game; and once or twice, as he passed me, asked if I was 
all right now? To which I answered, “ Thank you, yes.” 
1 liked him after that in a different way to what I had 
before. 

Sometimes, if we were alone in the room together, as 
before dinner, washing our hands and brushing our hair, 
he would talk to me about nice things. But the moment 
any of the other fellows came up, he always stopped and 
went on doing what he was doing in silence. I don’t mind 
tliat, either. I believe he thinks the other fellows are fools 
like I do. At night he never speaks without some one 
speaking to him, and then he won’t make a conversation. 
Every one hates him, — even the small boys. 

The last few days of that term were very warm. There 
was a talk of having cricket and river-bathing; at any 
rate, rackets began, and, I think, some boating was done. 
Football of course had stopped a few weeks before the 
Sports, so as to get the field ready. I mean the Bounds 
had stopped; but there was always “little game” in the 
Circus Field, for any one who cared to go up. I liked 
better going walks by the river or about the fields. I 
liked to whistle as I went along ; sometimes, even, I 
hummed tunes. The spring makes one feel so glad, some- 
how. One half-holiday, I remember, I got as far up the 
river as Morley Mill. 

Just past there the bank is very high and thickly 


30 


A Child of the Age. 


wooded. I began to go up, intending to sit there and look 
round a bit. There was not time to go on to the mill. 
Up I went, by the narrow path, and all at once came upon 
Bruce, lying at full length on a piece of grass, with a 
bundle of flowers and a small microscope-sort-of-thing in 
his hand, through which he was looking at something. 
He did not notice me. Then some earth rolled away 
from under my foot, and went down rustling, and he 
raised his head slowly and saw me, and said, — 

“ Hullo, Leicester. Is that you? ” 

I could think of nothing to say but “Yes,” and stood 
''still. 

“ What brought you out so far as this ? ” asked he. 

“ I don’t know. I ’m fond of walking, especially by 
the river.” 

“ Are you fond of flowers ? ” 

“ Yes. You mean looking at them under microscopes 
and things ? I have never done that ; but I like flowers. 
They are so ... so pleasant somehow. ” 

His chin flattened on his coat as he looked down, hold- 
ing a grass in the fingers of the arm he leaned on. 

At last I said, — 

“ You have polished that stone nicely, Bruce.” 

He looked up. 

“ I did n’t polish it. It is a piece of limestone. Would 
you like to look at it ? ” 

“ Thank you,” I said, “ I would.” 

He held the piece of stone and the microscope for me to 
look. I was surprised at the beautiful shapes inlaid on it. 
He explained that they were shells. 

I asked if I might look at some of the flowers through 
the microscope. Certainly, said he: had I never looked 
through a microscope before? 

“Never, Bruce,” I said, looking up and into his eyes. 
He turned his onto the dried grass. 


A Child of the Age. 31 

Then somehow we began to talk about birds, and he told 
me about how they paired in the spring. 

He was sure birds had a sense of the beautiful. Darwin 
thinks so. 

He paused, and ended, looking up over the tops of the 
trees below us. 

After a little : — 

“ Who is Darwin ? ” I said. 

He looked round, and then to me, — 

“ The biggest man, maybe, that has ever lived,” he said. 
“ Do you mean he ’s the greatest man who ever lived ? ” 
I asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ 1 don’t think he ’s as great a man as Sir Walter Scott,” 
1 said. 

“ What do you know of Sir Walter Scott? ” 

“ I have read two of his novels, — ‘ Ivanhoe ’ and 
“The ‘Talisman,’ — and I am going to read them all. 
There are thirty-one. I counted them yesterday.” 

“ Yes?” 

A pause. 

Then, after a little, I asked him if he was not leaving 
this term ? He said, “ Yes. ” 

“ Are you going to Oxford or Cambridge ? ” 

“ To neither. I am going to London.” 

“ Why don’t you go to the ’Varsity ? ” 

“ Because I don’t want to. I don’t see the good of it.” 
Another pause. I sat with my hands clasped round my 
knees, looking over the river. Suddenly I thought I would 
ask him something. So X said, — 

“ Bruce.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Would you ever like . . . to be a great man — a big 
man ? ” 

He looked at me with a gather in his brows. 


32 


A Child of the Age. 

“Well lie said, “ I suppose I might. Why ? ” 

“ Oh, I only wondered. I shall be a great man some 
day, before I die. And I like to think about it when I ’m 
low, — low in my spirits, I mean. Now, yesterday, as I 
was standing by my locker, I got hit in the eye with a board 
(crust of bread) by a fellow, and it hurt me very much, 
and almost made me cry with anger; it seemed so unfair. 
But when I got up into my room and thought about it a 
little, I did n^t mind much. For, when Leslie dies, no 
one will ever speak about him again or be sorry for him; 
but when I am dead, people will often speak about me, 
and be sorry for me, and like me. It ’s very nice to think 
of people liking you when you ’re dead, 1 think.” 

I sat looking into the lower sky, not remembering 
Bruce. But all at once I heard him talking in a strange 
voice, and started and looked at him. 

He saw me looking at him, .and jumped up, before I 
noticed what his face was like. 

“You ’re a rum little beggar! ” he said; then sat down 
again, and went on: — 

“ Do you tell every one all this sort of thing? ” 

“ No, I 've never told any one of it before, I don’t think. 
Why should I ? ” 

He blew softly through his lips. 

“ Ph-o-o . . . Fellows do. Do you know Clayton? ” 

“ No.” I shook my head. 

“Or . . . Gildea?’’' 

“ Well ... a few days ago I was writing lines in my 
study after second lesson, and he came round for some 
ink, and we talked a little then. That’s all I know of 
him.” 

A pause. 

Then he ; — 

“ Take my advice, and have nothing to do with Gildea — ” 
Another pause. 


A Child of the Age. 33 

“Why?” asked I. “He’s rather a nice fellow, isn’t 
he ? ” 

“ Because . . . He ’ll do you no good.” 

“ I don’t twig that, quite.” 

“It’s no matter,” he said. “You’ll find plenty of 
things you can’t twig, I expect, before you are a great man, 
Now you had better be starting back,” he added, getting 
up, “ or you ’ll be late for call-over,” 

He took out his watch and stood looking at the face for 
a little. 

I got up, turned away, and began to descend the hill. 

He passed me a few fields further on, without even a 
nod. 

I never talked with him any more, A week or so after, 
the term ended, and then, of course, he left. 

Those holidays began badly. I went out to Raymond 
to see Mary, the first Monday. When I got to the farm 1 
found it shut up, and, after I had tried at every door to 
find if there was any one inside, went away sadly, feeling 
very lonely. I only walked out that way once again in the 
holidays. It was still shut up. I did not try to discover 
if there was any one inside. 

Still, these midsummer holidays were, on the whole, by 
far the happiest time I had ever spent. I was on the river 
almost every moment that I could be, sculling about in a 
whiff I got from one of the boat-owners of the town, Avith 
a £d note sent to me by Colonel James at the end of July. 
I bathed a great deal. I see myself swimming down the 
red-brown river between the thickly wooded banks on 
either side; doAvn past “the snag,” to Avhere the river 
grows shallower, and the sunlight filters through into the 
water grasses; can see myself dive, and go with large 
arm-strides over the pebbly, weedy bottom; now rolling 
over a luxuriant, wavy head of soft green, now turning to 

3 


34 


A Child of the Age, 

face the current, and all in the fairy light of flowing 
water that the sun shines upon. Again, can see myself 
driving my light boat down the twilight stream, or, resting 
on my oars, drifting slowly with soft, harmonious-moving 
thoughts. 


III. 

The next midsummer holidays, to which I had looked 
forward eagerly, were a disappointment. The weather was 
had, chill, windy, and rainy. I forsook my boating at 
last; took to long walks over the wet fields, with sadness 
through all my thoughts. In the end, dreams became 
almost nightly, fantastic dreams, — never quite night- 
mares, although the shadow of nightmare was often in 
them like a polyp in a dim submarine water. I wrote odd 
things about this, — fragments, half understood by myself, 
almost always torn up after a few lines had been put down, 
— and then I sat bent over the table, the end of the pen or 
peneil in my mouth, and my eyes staring at nothing, till 
the fit passed. The dull or rainy weather held on almost 
uninterruptedly. I was somewhat relieved when the holi- 
days were over. 

With the new term came finer weather. September — 
the end of it — and half October were soft and beautiful. 
Then two or three wind-gales blew, whirling all the leaves 
and many twigs and even boughs off the roaring trees; 
nay, pulling some trees — and not small ones — to the 
earth. These gales past, the “ Challenge Matches ” between 
the several “ houses ” began. I got my School-house 
“colors” all right, as “three-quarters back.” I enjoyed 
those games. The excitement of the fellows over the stiff 
tussles we — School-house — had with Gough’s and Mason’s 
thrilled me every now and then. A sort of viciousness 
and devilry came into me. I remember well , how once, 


35 


A Child of the Age. 

when Harper, after a grand run down the left side of the 
Mere field (we had the wall goal), got past first one back, 
and then the other, and came on at full speed, the hall not 
two yards before him, hurrying to pass me, — the short run 
I took, so as to poise myself, and then how I went straight 
as an arrow for the ball and him. We met violently. 1 
half spun round; tottered; recovered myself; saw the ball, 
just turning, a*yard or so to the right; leaped to it; kicked; 
saw it go right up, round, through the air, on over the 
heads of the yelling crowd of fellows a quarter way up the 
field, and then turned, to see Harper get up off his knee 
and move away. I could have given a shout of delight. 
That swift rush and violent meeting had gone into my 
heart and head like strong wine. 

J ust for the two weeks we wanted fine, cold, dry weather 
(for the Challenge Matches, I mean) we had it. Then it 
broke up; rain took the place of the sun, and warm damp 
the place of the cold dry. The effect upon me was evil. 
The sadness through all my thoughts was with me again. 

One night, hot, feverish even, unable to work, I could 
not get myself and present sayings and doings out of dream- 
land. My throat was sore, too, as if I had an inflamma- 
tion there. Preparation and prayers over, I went up to 
the bedroom, undressed, and lay in the cool sheets, think- 
ing in a vague way about death coming to me some time 
soon. The thought was, like everything this evening, in 
dream-land. I spent a hot, sleepless night. 

Next morning I went from bad to worse. Tt was a 
Saturday. I felt like what I thought a melancholy bird 
felt, moping with a malady. I went up to my room and 
lay on my bed, till, after about an hour, being thirsty and 
getting up for some water, I saw my face in the glass over 
the washing-stand, a scarlet patch upon my right forehead, 
— so bright a scarlet that I wondered a little. I had 
scarcely lain down again when there was a knock at the 


36 


A Child of the Age. 

door. “Come in,” I said, and entered — Clayton. I 
made a dissatisfied noise to myself. 

Then he began to ask if I did n’t feel well ? could he do 
anything for me ? would I like any books from the library 
(he could easily get the key from “ monitors’ room,” you 
know), and the rest of it. In the end he went off, and I 
thought that that was tlie end of him. 

I was dozing when there came a knock again. “ Come 
in,” angrily from me, and there was Clayton with a pile 
of books in one hand, and a bulging paper-bag in the otlier. 

“ I thought you might like some oranges,” he said, put- 
ting the books down on the next bed, and opening the 
bag’s mouth. I wished him at the devil. Why can’t 
people leave you alone when you ’re moping 1 

After a little : — 

“You’d better skip first lesson, to-morrow,” he said, 
“and go seger. You look as though you were sickening 
for something or other. There ’s a lot of measles about in 
the town.” 

Another pause. Then up he rose, and saying, “ Well, 
I see you ’re tired; I won’t stay any longer,” had passed 
the second bed, going for the door, before I got out, — 

“ Thank you for the oranges, -^but I don’t want them, 
thank you; and for the books too.” I forget the rest of it. 
Somehow he came back for the bag, and took it away, and 
the door shut, and I turned round to the wall, and fell 
into a doze. 

The nerxt morning I lay still. When Mother McCarthy 
came her rounds at about half-past eight, to see who ’d 
skipped “first lesson,” she recognized the fact that Iliad 
scarlet fever. I did n’t care much. 

I was put into hospital, and the days passed dimly. 
But on the seventh or eighth morning, when the rash was 
all but gone, Mother McCarthy told me, as she brought in 
my breakfast, that “ Mr. Clayton had taken it.” That set 


37 


A Child of the Age. 

me off laughing. Not that I wanted him to have it (I 
did not care a jot about him one way or the other); hut it 
struck me as not bad sport in the abstract, that Clayton 
should have it, and be cooped up here with me. 

They soon got him into bed, wrapped up in flannels, and 
the rest of it. I could n’t help laughing to see his face, so 
elongated, as solemn as if at the celebration of a rite. The 
idea of what he would look like later on — red all over, 
and his tongue like a white strawberry — quite overcame 
me. I believe he thought he was not far from death. He 
closed his eyes with a resignation that was not without 
sweetness, and his lips moved, as if in prayer, I thought. 
Such a fit of laughter came into me that I had to stuff a 
piece of the sheet into my mouth. I ended by being 
rather ashamed of myself. 

But later on he cheered up amazingly. His attack was 
a slight one. Despite my eight days’ start, he was con- 
valescent before me; for one night I, impatient at my 
itching hide, got out of bed, and took to stalking up and 
down the length of the room, in my nightshirt, despite his 
assurances that I should catch cold and have dropsy and 
inflammation of the kidneys and the brain, with convul- 
sions, and God knows what besides. Sure enough, I did 
get something rheumatic in my joints, and I was told by 
the doctor that some inflammation of the eyes I had had 
not been improved by a chill I must have taken somehow. 
1 kept silence, and made the best of it. 

Later on, one day when my eyes were still too weak to 
see to read well, Clayton insisted on reading aloud to me; 
and a half week’s insisting turned it almost into a habit. 
The fact was I had rather begun to like the fellow. 

At last he was well enough to bear the 'journey home. 
I remember that last evening, or rather afternoon, we 
spent together, well. We had been playing draughts by 
the window, while the sun set in veins of gold and red- 


38 


A Child of the Age. 


hued light, visible to us as we looked out in the pauses of 
the game. Then it had become too dark for my weak eyes 
to see well, and we did not care to have the gas lit. We 
went and sat by the fire, I lying back in the large cane 
easy- chair, he beside me, bent forward, with his hand 
twirling a little piece of paper in the fingers resting on the 
wicker arm. We had been talking about different things 
that had taken place in the school, and gradually dropped 
into silence. 

All at once : — 

“ Leicester,” he said, making a movement. 

« Well ? ” 

“ Why are you such an odd sort of fellow ? ” 

I answered nothing. 

“ Now don’t scowl,” he said. “ You are, you know. . . . 
Do you know, I think you’re very unjust to yourself? 
almost as unjust to yourself as you are to other people.” 

“Yes’ ” I said. 

“ You ’re such a porcupine! You ’re always putting up 
your quills at people. Why do you do it? ” 

“Do I?” I said. 

“ Now you know quite well you do.” 

I answered nothing. 

He went on : — 

“If I were you, I’d give it up; I would, indeed! 
Where ’s the fun in living day and night with your own 
sulky self ? Don’t you ever feel as if you ’d give a great 
deal to laugh and — and amuse yourself (you know what I 
mean) like other fellows? . . . instead of brooding over 
your wrongs in a corner . . . Eh ? ” 

I kept silence. 

“ Now answer me, do! . . . Come, now don’t you often 
feel as if you ’d very much like to have friends like other 
fellows have ? ” 

“ No,” I said, “ not like other fellows have.” 


A Child of the Age. 


39 


Another pause. 

Then he, with a loud sigh, — 

“ Friends, then? You M like to have friends, wouldn’t 
you?” 

“ One ’ud he enough,” I said. 

Another pause, and another loud sigh, as he said, — 

“ You ’re in one of your bad humors to-night.” 

Then he burst out, — 

“Upon my word, Leicester, you’re a confounded fool! 
There you sit, like a miserable old cynic, hugging your 
conceit, as full of morbid nonsense as you can well hold, -a 
fool ... a ... a ... ” He stammered. 

“ Well ? ” 

Then he came to a full stop, made another movement in 
his chair, and began again, with some resolution, — 

“ Now look here. There you are, — a fellow who might 
be as liked as any one in the school, if you only cared. 
Instead of that, you ’re the most disliked in the scliool, 
and all on account of your confounded conceit! You think 
every one else is a fool but yourself; and you think you 
think it does n’t matter in the least what they think, — 
about you or anything else either! Now that ’s rot! ” 

“ 1 don’t see it,” I said. “ In two years, who will know 
whether I was liked or disliked at a school called Glaston- 
bury ? Of course I don’t care about it! Who would? ” 

“ You do care ; you care a great deal ! ” 

“ Yes, Clayton ? ” 

“I know it. If you didn’t care, would you take the 
trouble to tell yourself so a hundred times a day, like you 
do, and make yourself miserable about it? . . . Pooh — h! 
You do care, right enough.” 

I kept silence. He proceeded, — 

“ Leicester, you ’re a fool. And it ’s all the worse 
because you need n’t be one without you liked. You 
might be a very nice fellow. You can be — when you like. ” 


40 


A Child of the Age. 


A pause. 

“ Well 1 ” asked he. 

“Well,” I said. 

“Then I hope it may do you good, then,” he cried. 
“ I am only saying it in that hope. I think too well of 
you to believe that you ’re blind to your own faults: and 
it may do you some good to see yourself as others see you. 
And that ’s all I ’ve got to say.” 

A pause. 

At last he, slowly, and not unsoftly, — 

“ 1 ’m going away this evening. . . . Mother McCarthy 
told you p’r’aps? . . . For good. ... I shall be sorry to go. 
. . . My father is a silk merchant, and he wants me to 
enter his office. He ’s come up here to take me home. . . . 
The dear old dad! ... Well (he gave his shoulders a little 
shrug) ... I suppose I shall be going abroad soon. 
There ^s a branch out in China he wants me to go to . . . 
or something like that.” 

Another pause. 

Then, — 

“ Do you want to go ? ” I said. 

“No,” he. said, “no, I don’t.” He made a movement 
in his chair. “ It ’s the last thing I should choose myself. 
But only one man in a thousand in this world can choose 
the profession he likes. . . . I’m my father’s only son, you 
see,” he added. 

“ Well ? ” I said. 

“ Well, the long and the short of it is . . . that I wish you 
wouldn’t . . . You know what I mean, Leicester. I don’t 
want to preach to you, but I somehow think you really 
might . . . might do so much better, if you liked. You ’ll 
be a great man some day ... if you live, that is, and God 
wills it.” 

“What?” said I. 

“ Did you ever know a man called Blake? ” he asked. 


A Child of the Age. 


41 


“Yes,” I said, “I did. Why?” 

“ Did you know he was dead ? ” 

I was startled. I looked at him sharply. 

“Dead? ” I said. 

“ Yes. He died a little while ago.” 

“How? ” 

“ It was an accident. He fell off a ladder somehow, 
and his head struck upon a stone, and it gashed a great 
hole into the brain. A piece of the brain was hanging 
out over his eye when they found him. It was in his 
garden. He had been training up a rose-tree that had 
been blown down by the wind. That about the piece of 
the brain hanging out over his eye has haunted me ever 
since I heard it. . . . Those clear, steadfast eyes! It is 
horrible! ” 

I kept silence, scarcely thinking. 

He went on, in a low voice, — 

“ . . . The night before he left I was in his rooms, talking 
with him. He was heavy about leaving the old place. 
He said he felt somehow as if he were going away from 
the grave of some one he loved. I remembered that — 
afterwards. Well, among other things he spoke about 
you. He had seen you at some school he had been to 
examine, I forget the name now. You had recited a poem 
of Longfellow’s, ‘The Psalm of Life,’ I think. He 
seemed very much struck with you. He said he thought 
you would be a great man some day. He said some other 
things about you, and asked me to look after you when 
you came here. He told me you were coming here soon. 

. . . Well, so I did, as much as I thought I ought to; for, 
don’t you see, it ’s not good for a fellow high up in the 
school to do much for a small boy. It ’s not good for the 
small boy. It’s better for him to fight out his battles 
alone. And I didn’t think I was likely to leave — for 
some time at any rate. But my brother died; and my 


42 


A Child of the Age. 

father, whose whole heart’s in his business, asked me to — 
to give up my plan, and help him with it. So — 1 did.” 

“ What did you want to be, Clayton ? ” I said. 

“ Oh, 1 ’d a foolish idea of my own [with a smile], about 
going up to the ‘Varsity,’ and studying Hebrew and 
science, and all sorts of things, and then going out to 
Palestine. You see I should have liked to have helped 
Blake if I could, and, when he died — why, the idea 
came into my head of trying to do what he had n’t been 
able to do. You know he was poor. . . . And he gave such a 
lot of what he had away. I believe he kept his mother 
and sister, too. I always thought so. — Anyhow” (with 
another smile,) “ there ’s an end to all those ideas of mine! ” 

“ Will you tell me what you wanted to do? ” I said. 

“Oh,” he said, “it wasn’t so much me; it was Blake. 
He put the idea into my head. He thought that the great 
need that the Church has at this present moment is some 
man who would devote his life to a real patient study of 
the origins of Christianity; so that it might be shown 
forth, once and for all, that Christianity has for its founda- 
tion no vain legend, but events as historically true, and 
as capable of being shown to be historically true, as any- 
thing that has happened within the boasted ages of science. 
That this might be done, could be done, and would be 
done, he felt sure, and so do I. But you see, at present, 
they all seem so taken up with themselves, — with their 
miserable grains of sectarian sand, I mean, — that such a 
man is not to be found, or if he is to be found . . . Well, 
God only understands these things! It does seem hard, at 
times, that all should be so against us! — They all seem to 
think it’s not worth the trouble! or it can’t be done! 
or that there’s no need for it! 0 fools! fools! fools! 
Can’t you see by the shore of what flood we are standing? 
Can’t you read the signs of the times? Can’t you see an 
Art that becomes day by day more and more of a drug, less 


43 


A Child of the Age. 

and less of a food for men’s souls ? A misty dream float- 
ing around it, a faint reek of the east, and strange, unnatu- 
ral scents breathing from it; but underneath mud, filth, 
the abomination of desolation, the horror of sin and of 
death! O my God, sometimes, thinking of it, my brain 
turns, and I fear I shall go mad. And to be able to do 
nothing I To see these devils in human shape — ” 

Suddenly he stopped short, swallowed, put the back of 
his fingers to his lips, and with a smile said quietly, — 
“Nay, he was right! There is no need for me, or God 
would let me go, in such a crisis as this is. Yet there 
come these moments when I seem to hear his voice as from 
behind, coming down through the thick clouds, saying to 
me, ‘Go forth.’ It may be delusion. I ’m not sure. I 
don’t know. It is terrible to be so tossed in opinion!” 
He was beginning to grow troubled; paused a little, and 
then with the same smile, his eyes all the while looking 
brightly before him, went on: “Nay, he was right! And 
what should I have learned from him if I could not. ... To 
leave my post ! ” Smiling again. Then, after a moment’s 
rest : “ . . . I remember it so well ! I can hear his voice now. 
‘Wherever any man shall take his place, either because he 
has thought it better that he should be there, or because 
his captain has put him there, there, as it seems to me, 
should he remain to face the danger, and take no account 
of death, or of anything else in comparison with dis- 
grace! ’ — And my captain is God,” he said. And with 
that he bent forward a little, with a faint light in his 
face and round his lips as of a bright smile that seemed to 
grow deeper and deeper in a dim dream that lacked not 
sweetness. I sat for a time watching him, till I too grew 
into a dream, — a dim one, — but it had no forms or 
shapes nor any sweetness. 

Suddenly I started up and out of it. Looking at him, 
and perceiving no gap in our talk, — • 

“ Who says that ? ” I said. 


44 


A Child of the Age. 

He answered slowly, as if unaware of me, — 

“ Plato makes Sokrates say it. . . . But I was thinking of 
a particular occasion.” 

The door was unlatched, opened, and Mother McCarthy 
put in her head to say that the Doctor had come up to say 
good-by, and shake hands with Mr. Clayton. 

“It’s very good of him!” cried Clayton, jumping up. 
“TsnT he afraid? Although,” he added, turning back a 
little to me, from half-way down the room, “ there ’s not 
much fear of us two, anyway. I ’ll be back in a sec.” 

He nodded: turned, and went out. The door closed: up 
went the latch: fell: steps crossed the planks :'another door 
opened and closed. Silence. 

I sat thinking vaguely about what he had been saying: 
vaguely, till my eyelids began to droop, and head to nod, 
and at last I must have fallen fast asleep. 

I woke up with a start. The fire was almost out. I was 
full of sleep: got off my things somehow: dropped into 
bed, the cool clean sheets: into sleep again, and slept 
soundly till morning. 

Mother McCarthy woke me, bringing in breakfast. The 
gold sunshine was pouring through the window. Her 
tongue was stirring already. - Mr. Clayton came in last 
night, but found I was asleep, and wouldn’t have me 
woke. But he left a note for me. I got it, and opened 
it at once. 

“ 8.30 P. M. 

“ Good-by, my dear fellow ! I am sorry our conversation was 
interrupted, or rather I should say my monologue : your part of 
it would have come in later p’r’aps 1 Write to me at 21 Norfolk 
Square, London, whenever you care to. I shall always be glad 
to hear from you. Indeed I do hope we sha’n’t lose sight of one 
another altogether. At present my plans are vague in the 
extreme. I ’ll write again soon. I ’m afraid I must have seemed 
rather a fool to you an hour ago? at any rate, very confused and 
peculiar. I was stirred, you see. I feel strongly about those 


45 


A Child of the Age. 

things. And believe me, my dear fellow, those things are the 
only things in the world worth feeling strongly about. You ’ll 
think so too, some day. But I must dry up now. Excuse paper, 
also almost illegible pencil, also this final scribble into a corner. 
And believe me that 1 am now, as always, truly yours, 

“Archibald Clayton. 

“ P. S. — Don’t be a porcupine 1 ” 


IV. 

Early in the next term I received another letter from 
Clayton. There wasn’t much in it, I thought. “ He was 
really about to leave Old England, going to learn bis occu- 
pation in life where every man should learn it, — under 
fire, and in the smoke of the battle.” 

I put the letter into my pocket, intending to answer it 
that evening at preparation. Indeed, did begin upon it, 
but, after the first seven lines or so, tore the sheet up, and 
went on with my work. I did n’t care about the fellow 
enough to write to him any of my thoughts, and, if I 
could n’t write them, I did n’t want to write anything. 

I believe he said or wrote things about me to one or two 
of his friends, especially Scott. For Scott is every now 
and then polite to me, when the chance occurs, as Clayton 
himself used to be; but that sort of politeness has no 
relish. 

That midsummer term I remember well enough — by its 
dreariness. Dull skies and rain, and our wretched School 
House “ crew ” pulling up the river, and down again, and 
on home mostly sulky. Once or twice I almost gave it 
up; but the thought of the good the exercise did me 
restrained me. Then the Bumping Races came. On the 
fourth night we bumped Gough’s, and kept our place as 
head of the river for the remaining four nights. 

As I was passing through the hall after the last night’s 


46 


A Child of the Age. 

races, I saw two or three letters on the end table, and, stop- 
ping, I don’t know quite why, to glance at them, saw one 
was for me. I recognized Colonel James’s handwriting 
at once. He wrote to me usually in the first week of 
August, enclosing a £5 note, for which I as usually 
thanked him, in a jerked letter, which invariably caused 
me not a little impatience; for, as I have already said, 
when I did n’t care about people enough to write to them 
any of my thoughts, I didn’t care about writing to them 
at all. His letter was somewhat after this fashion : — 

“Junior United Service Club, 
July 21st, 18 — . 

“ Dear Leicester, — A communication has been forwarded to 
me from my lawyer’s, purporting to come from Mr. Charles Chol- 
meley, of the Myrtles, Seabay, Isle of Wight, who, I am thereby 
informed, is the only brother of the late Mrs. Leicester, your 
mother. He has, I believe, been residing for some time abroad, 
owing to the weak state of his health, and is, as he is good enough 
to inform me, by birth an American. He has received from me 
what information I thought fit to give him about your affairs, and 
you may shortly expect to receive a direct communication from 
him yourself. He desires that you should be allowed to pass the 
first fortnight of your midsummer vacation with him at the Myr- 
tles, Seabay, Isle of Wight, and I at present see no objection to 
your accepting his invitation ; but you are, as far as I am con- 
cerned, at liberty to please yourself in the matter. He is, I under- 
stand, likely to go abroad again very shortly, having only come 
to England, as he informs me, in order to transact some urgent 
business which requires his presence in England ; so that, as there 
need be no further acquaintance between you, beyond perhaps 
some small correspondence, I have not, as I have said, seen any 
objection to your accepting his invitation to pass the first fort- 
night of your midsummer vacation with him. At the same time 
1 desire you to understand, that, as long as you are under my 
care, I must insist that your acquaintance with any of the late 
Mrs. Leicester’s, your mother’s, relations be nothing beyond what 
ordinary courtesy to them shall require. Any intimacy with them 


47 


A Child of the Age. 

was strongly deprecated by the late Major Leicester, your father, 
during his lifetime ; and both as his friend and as your guardian 
I feel myself bound to follow out his wishes on the subject, even 
if my own did not coincide with them, as, I may add, they do 
most completely. 

“I enclose my customary allowance of £5 to you for the year’s 
pocket money. You can apply to the Rev. Dr. Craven for the 
necessary funds for your travelling expenses, an account of which 
I shall expect you to forward to me. 

“ 1 remain truly yours, 

“Thos. R. James. 

“Bertram Leicester.” 

As I stripped myself, ran down to the wash-room, took 
my place behind the last fellow on the stairs, and as 1 was 
washing in the wash-room before I went under the tap, I 
thought in a half-dreamy way about this uncle of mine, and 
then about my mother and Colonel James, and then about 
my father. But going under the tap, and standing there 
with the cool water gushing all over my chest and down 
my body, my thoughts, arrested, took another turn, and 
it was not till I was in bed that night that they reverted 
to the matter. Who was my mother ? My father was a 
major in the army, a “friend” of Colonel James: some- 
thing like Colonel James seems to me, perhaps; a stiff- 
bodied, stiff-kneed, steel -gray-headed old gentleman, mod- 
elled upon Thackeray’s Major Pendennis. . . . Was my 
mother the woman up in one of the berths of that second 
darker vision, the woman up in one of the berths, sooth- 
ing and giving suck to the child fractious with sleep 
and misery 1 The baby-boy, then, was my brother or 
sister ? Had I a brother or sister ? I felt somehow that 
I had not. Had I a mother? I felt that, on the other 
side of some broad, shelved, and dim atmosphere, I had. 
Sometimes she stood still, turned towards me; but neither 
of us made any great effort to see the other. “ My father 


48 


A Child of the Age. 

lies dead in the close dark coffin in the ground, with a 
frown on his face. . . . And my thoughts of them,” I said 
to myself, “are this much worth: that my mother is dead, 
‘the late Mrs. Leicester,’ and my father’s face probably 
past all frowning now. Nay, they probably are semi- 
dissolved bodies together!” On which thought I fell 
asleep, and had a horrible dream of propping up the body 
of my father, great, naked, flabby, which would come upon 
me. This, dream disturbed me for the whole of the next 
day with a feeling of flabby death near and not near me, 
by and not by me, my father and not my father. 

The morning after that, at breakfast, Armstrong, who 
sat next me, getting up to look at the letters when they 
were brought in, returned and threw one on to my plate. 
It was addressed to B. Leicester, Esq., in a thin scratchy 
hand, and the envelope was large and oblong, and of 
glazed white paper. In a little I opened it, supposing it 
to be from Mr. Cholmeley, and rightly. It ren like 
this : — 

“The Myrtles, Seabay, Isle of Wight, 
22d July, 18—. 

“ Dear Mr. Leicester, — I dare say that, by this time, my 
name, Cholmeley, will convey some impression to your mind ; for I 
must suppose that your guardian. Colonel James, has not left 
you in complete ignorance of the correspondence that has been 
passing between us. 

“ 1 prefer coming at once to the point, or rather one of the 
points ; for there are two. The first is, some explanation of what 
you must suppose to have been nothing short of absolute neglect 
of yourself on my part ; the second is, as you are probably aware, 
to ask you to confer upon me the pleasure of your society here for 
the first fortnight in August. I should, indeed, have been happy 
to have given you a somewhat larger invitation ; but, as my health 
requires me to hasten south again to those parts which alone seem 
able to make my wretched old body an endurable habitation, you 
will see that this is impossible. 


A Child of the Age. 


49 


“ I now return to the first point. I saw but very little of my 
sister, Isabel, your mother ; for having very early shown a decided 
inclination for the study of the classics, that chiefest lahorum dulce 
lenimen, and my grandfather, having himself been a scholar of no 
despicable pretensions, (although of a somewhat more artificial, 
if sounder, character than those at present in vogue,) and more- 
over money not being a want to us, I naturally desired, and at 
last gained, my father’s permission to I’eturn to England, ulti- 
mately proceeding to Cambridge, where I obtained the distinc- 
tion of Chancellor’s Medallist and Second Classic, terms doubtless 
familiar to you, a member of a school in which, I believe, the old 
classical tradition is still handed down unsullied by the barbaric 
bar-sinister of either Science or what they call a ‘ jModern Side ’ ! 
Shortly after my matriculation I had heard that my father’s health 
was a little shaken by a severe chill caught at some festal gather- 
ing, but the evil effects were apparently eradicated by care and 
a good doctor, and I had given up any anxious thought about the 
matter. Indeed, the account I had of him for the next few years 
was encouraging in the extreme. You may, then, imagine my 
consternation and grief when, shortly after my last University 
success, I received intelligence of his sudden death, and of my 
sister’s desire to come to England as soon as possible, in order 
that she might take up her residence with an aunt of ours at that 
time residing near Manchester. This voyage was actually per- 
formed, and I myself stayed for a few days at my aunt’s house, 
from the experience of which few days I formed that estimate of 
what appeared to me to be your mother’s natural disposition, 
which, despite all subsequent events, I have seen no proper reason 
to cease to hold as being, in the main, a correct one. I can say, 
with the most absolute sincerity, that I believe that the greatest 
of her faults was thoughtlessness, and that I have so far con- 
sidered, and shall in all probability continue to consider to the 
end of my life, that all attempts to make her out as, either natu- 
rally or by her eatly training, depraved, are as unfounded as they 
are ungenerous and unjust. I make no doubt that you already 
know at any rate the general outline of your unhappy mother’s 
subsequent career, and I shall therefore make no further allusion 
to it than that which I have already made. 

“ You will, I think, easily perceive that her marriage with 

4 


50 


A Child of the Age. 


your father, and their instantaneous departure for Cork, where 
his regiment was then quartered, and my scholastic labors and 
ultimately my own marriage, to say nothing of our most opposed 
spheres of life, made any close intimacy between the two families 
all but impossible. After a short, too short period of happiness, I 
was left to face life with the motherless pledge of mutual affection 
and a frame shattered by an alas useless attendance on the sick 
bed of my beloved wife and companion. I felt that change of 
scene and change of climate were absolutely necessary to me. I 
left England, therefore ; and so it came about that, unhonored by 
the confidence of my sister, I remained for long in ignorance of 
anything more than the general facts of her history. It was only 
through inquiries, instituted by me shortly after L had received 
intelligence of her death, that I learnt of your existence at all, 
and then, being informed that you were well cared for, and being 
myself at the time engaged upon a most laborious and absorbing 
undertaking, I thought it no great neglect of you to wait till, that 
undertaking completed, however unworthily, and my presence in 
England being from the nature of the thing (I need not scruple to 
inform you that I refer to my forthcoming edition of the plays of 
Sophocles) an absolute necessity, at any rate for a short season, 
I could make your acquaintance personally, instead of being com- 
pelled to know you and be known of you through nothing more 
intimate than the post ! 

“ There are other things which I desired to say to you, but for 
the present I must forbear, for my ^exertions of the last few days 
have so worn out these wretchedly shattered nerves of mine, that 
I find both energy and acumen to be pitiably lacking. Let this, 
I pray you, be some excuse for the paltriness of this letter ; and 
more especially for the abrupt ending which I am now about to 
give to it. I hope to hear from you shortly, and in the mean time 
ask you to believe me, dear Mr. Leicester, to be your affectionate 
uncle, 

“ Charles K. Cholmeley.” 

The letter made no impression upon me at the time; 
for it did not seem to have much, if any, concern with me. 
I had read it with half-absent thoughts : then I put it 
into my breast-coat pocket : finished my breakfast : got up 


51 


A Child of the Age. 

to my locker: took out one or two books, and went off to 
my study to look through some Cicero, the “ Pro Milone,” 
which we had for exam, at second lesson. It was not 
till, the exam, paper over, I stood at my locker in the 
hall again, putting away my pen and blotting-paper, that 
my mind recurred to Mr. Cholmeley and his invitation. 
I shut to the locker door, took my hat off one of tlie 
pegs, and went out into the quad, with my hands in my 
pockets, thinking: “I suppose I may as well go down 
there. . . . And yet I doiiH know. There ’s the boating, 
and I reckoned on a happy time by myself. Well, it’s 
only for three weeks at the worst: and I suppose, as he ’s 
my uncle, I . . . And — he might tell me something 
about my mother.” (I lifted up my head.) “ I have just 
enough care about her, or her history, or whatever it is, 
to call it curiosity.” It was on some doubt consequent on 
this thought that I went in to see Craven. 

I found him in the study, taking off his gown. He 
received me affably. Yes, he had received a letter (this 

was it) from Mr. Mr. Cholmeley, yes, Mr. Cholmeley — 

My uncle ? Ah yes, my uncle ! — asking permission from 
him to allow me to spend the first fortnight of my mid- 
summer vacation with him at Seabay, in the Isle of Wight. 
Colonel James had been good enough to make his (Craven’s) 
permission a requisite? Well (looking up from his in- 
spection of the letter), he had no objection to my going, — 
no objection. No. Mr. Cholmeley was my uncle ? Hid 
1 know if he was any relation of . . . Ah, it must be the 
same, he saw: Charles K. Cholmeley. — He had not 
noticed the initials. 

“Are you aware, Leicester,” he said, with his foolish 
blinking smile, “ that Mr. Cholmeley is one of the great- 
est authorities on the Greek tragedians that we have? 
What, what? You weren’t aware of it? Now I hope 
you ’ll be careful not to ...” And so on. The end of it 


52 


A Child of the Age. 

being that be informed me, after a pause, that he thought 
a fortnight at Seabay would do me good. I was not to 
forget to warn Mrs. Jones of the change in my plans. 
There were some charming pieces of scenery in the neigh- 
borhood of Seabay. 

“ That is,” he said, with another of his silly grins, “ if 
you care for charming pieces of scenery, Leicester? What, 
Vv^hat ? ” 

1 thought that it would be purposeless to say to him that 
I did, or how much I did: so kept silence, with my eyes 
on the ground, waiting for the old fool to finish. 

“ Well, well! ” he said. “ Perhaps that will come later 
on I — You may go, Leicester.” 

I went out, and up into my study, and sat down in a 
chair, tilting it back and putting my feet against the table 
by the window looking out on to the quad, and began 
to think whether I really wanted to go and see my uncle, 
or wasn’t it foolish to give up the pleasure of an extra 
fortnight alone on the river? “Well,” I said, getting 
up, “ I shall go now, I suppose.” 

The remaining week passed with imperceptible fleetness. 
I read a good deal, stalked out and over the fields to the 
bathing-place twice or three times, and sculled a little up 
the river. 

1 remember, the last night, going into Mother McCarthy 
to get my hat from the cupboard — how I came along the 
dark passage; opened the door, with Gordon (the monitor) 
under the gas, leaning against the iron-work of Armstrong’s 
bed, reading a book, and biting his nails: went on to my 
bed, threw the hat on to it: turned to the opened window 
and looked out, — through the branches of two of the dark 
deep trees, into the quad. — all there in the moonlight 
with the shadowed houses, and, beyond, the opened heaven 
paly blue, lit with some self-containing radiance. 

And a feeling of soft peace grew in me, — something 


A Child of the Age. 


53 


which was unspeakable, and which could not be left, — to 
turn round to the bright gas-light, and the hedded-jugged 
room and the fellows; so that the thought of them left me, 
trailing and fading away as some half-pulsing sort of ten- 
tacle in a dream, and I remained with the fulness of that 
soft peace unspeakable: until there was a start, my atten- 
tion taken backward, a hook snapped up, and I knew the 
butler had been in and put out the gas. 

I went from the window into the space between the two 
beds, and undressed in silence, thinking. 



CHAPTER II. 


I. 

A rmstrong Uved in London. As we were getting 
up in the early morning, he found out that I too had 
to go to London, and asked me to have breakfast with him 
at Miller’s, where they give you a decent tuck-in for 
1/6, and besides Knight’s is so dirty, and he hadn’t 
paid his tick there yet for last term. I agreed to go with 
him, though in a glum sort of a way; for I was in an 
irresolute humor, half dissatisfied with everything and 
everybody, particularly myself. Well, into Miller’s we 
went together, — through the shop into a small poky 
gas-lit room where, round a table, sat some four or five 
fellows “ tucking in ” at coffee, bread, eggs and bacon, and 
jam. In a little, I got a seat next Tolby Jenkins, a fat 
monitorial fool of ignoble sort. 

Armstrong and I were coming down the gray-morning 
hill to the station, before I returned to myself again. 
And then there was an entry into a tobacconist’s just 
opened, and a purchase by Armstrong of bird’s-eye and 
some cigarettes. 

“Aren’t you going to get anything?” asked he, half 
turning to look at me, who was looking out of the door 
across the station yard to the station steps and doorway. I 
turned and met his look. 

“ Very well,” I said, “ give me a box of cigarettes,” and 
took out a shilling, and “ lifted ” it from where I was on 
to the counter. 


55 


A Child of the Age. 

We crossed into the station. A good many fellows were 
about. Armstrong had talk with some, and, in the end, 
I got into one of the London carriages after him and sat 
down next the fellow at the far end, facing the engine. 
Directly opposite me was Norris, — our stroke of the 
Schoolhouse, I mean; and in the corner, Davidson. In 
the other corner of that side, friend Leslie on his last jour- 
ney home from Glastonbury School. Armstrong next 
Leslie, Jones junior on my right, and Jacobson next him 
in the corner. 

For the first hour we had a loud time of it. Norris 
sang solos of popular songs, and the rest joined in deafening 
choruses, enlivened by occasional horse-play. I was set 
off, almost smiling more than once at the thought of my 
solemn self sitting there, drawing every now and then from 
a desultory cigarette, and sending out a faint whiff of 
smoke into the rush of air that passed through one window 
rollingly out of the other. It was n’t that I did n’t care 
for mirth, I thought, for there have been times when I 
have felt ready for a witch’s Sabbath over the hills, or 
any laughter-devilry you please; not to recall other times, 
when the readiness for a gibe at some young woman of the 
Beatrice stamp was all but irresistible, and prompted 
shouting and m'irthfulness only ended by sheer exhaustion. 
But what was there in these “ earthy ” fools (I mean, as if 
tliey were not unlike fat, half-lousy Flemish revellers 
among the barrels of a cellar. And yet not quite that!) 
to inspire mirth, or even laughter? So I sat thinking, 
till, all at once, Norris set up a ringing sea-song that, 
after a little listening, made a cold shiver go down my 
back, and my eyes light up, and the necessity for a loud 
shout in the chorus a simple half-conscious satisfaction. 

The rest of the journey was peaceful, — by comparison, 
perhaps. Norris and Leslie left us at Bridgetown ; David- 
son got out soon after. We could hear the other London 


56 


A Child of the Age. 

fellows in tlie next carriage singing for a little after that; 
but those in here grew quieter, — reading or talking, while I 
sat still thinking. And so the time went. At London 
there was a general shaking of hands all round, and quick 
parting, and I changed to my second train. 

At Portsmouth I went on board the boat. It was a 
heavenly afternoon. A mild sky streamed with tender 
colors, and the air mild, — not hot or cool. I stood lean- 
ing against the rigging, forward by the bowsprit, while the 
gentle scene went by. Faint unreality was with me, and 
something dreamy. 

“ Altogether,” I said to myself, sitting in the engine- 
side corner of the waiting train, with my hand in my 
cheek, and my elbow in the window-ledge, “to-day has 
been a day of dreamy changes; one unlike any one I know, 
save perhaps three or four of my fever days.” What I 
remember next was looking forth at Seabay, on a long 
board we were passing. Then we stopped. I put my 
hand out of the door, turned the handle, shoved open tlie 
door with my knee, and got out. It was a hot, late-after- 
noon, though a gentle sea-lmeeze was blowing. The sky 
was full of rare colors. A porter pulled ray box out of 
the luggage van, and landed it, over the stone border, on 
the brick-red gravel. 

I stood by the box, and the train went on and away: 
stood for some little, reflecting that I had forgotten Mr. 
Cholmeley’s address, and had neither his letter nor Colonel 
James’s to refer to. It didn’t trouble me. I stood still, 
thinking about things in a vague way; then took to look- 
ing at the station, and a tall grass bank opposite. There 
seemed no one in the station now. A hen fluttered out of 
some furze a little farther on into the line. Some ducks 
cane paddling their bills along in a broad rut on the other 
side of it. I could hear a telegraph clock tick-tick-tick- 
ticking. 


57 


A Child of the Age. 

As my slow gaze went to the doorway and a small book- 
stall towards the other end of my side of the station, an 
old gentleman’s head, bent shoulders, and black-clothed 
body came from just past the book-stall. He had a white 
stock round his neck. And then, between him and the 
book-stall stepped a fair young girl. They came on slowly 
along the brick-red gravel. 

1 observed them with a new feeling, — them, — neither 
the old gentleman particularly, nor the girl. All at once 
he stopped. Then she stopped. 

He said, “ My dear, I don’t see him.” 

The girl raised her head and looked towards me. Our 
eyes met. Everything in me stood still, effortlessly 
though. Then she looked down to him, lifted her hand 
to his arm, and said in a low tone, — 

“I expect that is Mr. Leicester there, father.” Up 
went his head, out came two horned glasses on to his nose, 
and he had a look at me. I smiled. 

“God bless my soul,” he said; “of course, of course! 
My dear, I ’m as blind as a bat.” And on that we all were 
together, and he had shaken my hand with his two, and 
with “ This is my daughter Eayne,” she and I had shaken 
hands. Then we all turned together and Avent on our 
way, over the gravel to the other end of the station. 

“You see,” he was saying, “it was my fault that Ave 
weren’t up here to meet the train. Yes, my dear,” he 
proceeded, “it Avas my fault; I acknoAvledge it.” 

“But Avhere ’s your luggage? ” said the girl, staying. 

Mr. Cholmeley Avas seized Avith a sudden and violent fit 
of coughing. 

“ There is my box,” I said, turning and looking toAvards 
it; and at that moment seeing a porter come out of a small 
room Ave had just passed, called to him. I turned back to 
them : — 

“ Shall I tell him to . . . Hoav? Are there cabs . . . 


or . . 


58 


A Child of the Age. 

Well,” said Rayne, with the light of laughter in her 
eyes, “there’s the pony carriage outside, but . . . I ’m 
afraid your box will be — rather too much for it.” 

I laughed. 

“ Eh ? ” said Mr. Cholmeley. “ What ? Eh ? The box, 
my dear? You said it was too big?” He turned also, 
adjusted the two horned glasses, and took a look at it. 
The porter was waiting by us. 

“ Well,” I said, turning and speaking to him, “ will you 
manage to bring it up ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. I ’ll see it ’s brought up. Where to, sir? ” 

I paused, looked at Rayne, again laughed, and said, “ I 
don’t know. You see, sir,” I went on to Mr. Cholmeley, 
“ I forgot the address of the house I was going to, and I 
had n’t either your letter or Colonel James’s in my pocket 
to refresh my memory with.” 

“ The Myrtles,” said Rayne to the porter. “ Well,” she 
added to me (he had gone with a queer, comical look and a 
“ Yes, Miss ”), “ it was lucky we came to meet you then.” 

“Very,” I said. Mr. Cholmeley had started slowly on 
in the original direction. We came up to him in a few 
steps, one on each side. 

“ I can’t make out,” I went on, “ what could have made 
me so forgetful.” 

“ In the over-wrought condition of our nerves, nowa- 
days, ” said Mr. Cholmeley, “the wonder is that we 
remember anything.” 

And with that we went out of the station, to a small 
pony-carriage and a small, brown, fat pony, waiting by the 
curb. Rayne drew back. Mr. Cholmeley got in, and 
made a motion to sit down in the front seat. I ran round 
to the other side to stop him, and succeeded. In a moment 
Rayne had jumped in, taken the reins, touched up the 
pony, and we were off at a smart trot. 

Mr. Cholmeley was leaning back with his eyes closed. 


59 


A Child of the Age. 

Then Eayiie asked something about my journey. And 
I answered in sort; till Mr. Cholmeley came into the con- 
versation, and it drifted to Glastonbury. He asked me a 
good many questions about the school, the system of teaching 
the classics in use, the subjects taught in each form, the 
amount taught, and other things, I answering as I best could. 

All at once, “ I do not care for Latin,” said Eayne. “It 
is dry.” 

Mr. Cholmeley lay back again, with his eyes closed, 
smiling serenely. 

“Nor do I, Miss Cholmeley,” I said. “I can’t under- 
stand Latin properly. It seems all so lifeless to me; as if 
they had all sat down and written it to pass away the wet 
afternoons. But Greek, — Homer, or even Xenophon! 
You remember that bit in the seventh book, I think, where 
they see the sea — ” 

Mr. Cholmeley murmured, “ Kat rd^a Srj dKovovai f^odvToiv 
TMv orrpartwTaiv, OaXarra, ^aAarra, koX TrapeyyvwvTOiv. A 
beautiful little touch, that TrapeyyvdvTojv.” 

“ What does it mean ? ” she asked. 

I, looking at Mr. Cholmeley, and perceiving his eyes 
still closed, answered rather diffidently, “ It means passing 
the cry on to one another like the watchword, I think.” 

“ Yes,” said Rayne, “ but I never got as far as that. I 
read some Xenophon last January,” she added to me, 

“ but it was frightfully uninteresting, I thought. Nothing 
but ‘Thence he marches nineteen stages, twenty -seven 
parasangs to ’ — some place or other; ‘a city populous, pros- 
perous, and great. And the River Scamander’ (or Menan- 
der, or whatever it is) ‘flows close to it, and there is a park 
and a palace in the middle of the city! ’ ” 

“My dear,” said Mr. Cholmeley, smiling with still 
closed eyes, “Menander!” 

“ I don’t think I shall ever want to read any other Greek 
but Homer,” she went on, flicking with the whip-lash. 


60 


A Child of the Age. 

In a little, “ Perhaps, Miss Cholmeley,” I said, “ you ’ll 
like to read ‘Plato ’ some day, like Lady Jane Grey did. 
I have only read part of the ‘Apology ’ and the ‘Crito,’ 
hut it seemed to me that it was fine. ” 

“Eh? hey?” said Mr. Cholmeley, opening his eyes, 
and erecting his head and body, “ why, here we are! ” 

I gave a glance at the house. It was a small house at 
the other end of a garden, pretty with bright flowers. 
There was a faint noise heard, like the wind in a row of 
tree-tops. Looking on, as I got down, I saw a line, about 
a quarter way up the house, with a pale blue band, — the 
sea! The breeze came up softly. There was a boy wait- 
ing just by the gate, for the pony, whose rein, close by 
the mouth, he now held. 

I stretched my hand for Mr. Cholmeley. He rested on 
it, and getting down, “ It ’s a beautiful day for August — 
in Seabay,” he said; “that is to say, if I may believe 
what they tell me about it. An antiquarian friend of 
mine at Newport describes the place as a bed in a cucum- 
ber-frame in summer. Myself, I am inclined to doubt it, 

■ — for reasons.” 

Payne was already down, and on to open the gate; but I 
was there first, and unlatched and threw it inwards, wide. 
Mr. Cholmeley passed in slowly, she following, with a 
look at me like that of when she said, “ Well, there ’s the 
pony-carriage outside, but ... I bn afraid your box will 
be rather too much for it.” I went in last, with an arriv- 
ing thought that I had seen her eyes somewhere before, and 
perhaps her face. 

We went in, through a small green-covered porch, to a 
small hall; then to the right, down a passage that met the 
little hall at right-angles; down a staircase; along a little 
hall again with an open door at the end, and green garden 
and bluey sea-view; then to the right, into a large light 
room, in the middle of which was a laid table and, for 


A Cl did of the Age. 61 

the far-side, a large half-bay window with the two central 
flaps opened outwards. 

Mr. Cholmeley sank down, sighing, in an armchair that 
Eayne turned a little to the window. 

“ Ah-h,” he said, “ I ’m very soon tired out now.” 

Then in a little, recovering himself, and looking up at 
me, standing by the window to his left, “ But perhaps Mr. 
J.eicester is hungry ” (turning his look up to Rayne, above 
tlie right arm of the armchair). “We forget that — and 
dinner is not till half-past seven.” 

“No,” 1 said, “ I am not hungry at all, thank you.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ Certain,” I said. “ I had some things on the way.” 

A pause. 

“ Then I think,” he said, “ that the best thing to be 

done will be for Rayne and you to go for a ramble along 

tlie shore together, and leave me here. I ’m afraid I 
should be but poor company just at present. In fact, I 
confess that I should like a little nap before dinner. You 
remember, my dear, I had no siesta this afternoon, and 
I ’m tired.” His voice fell. 

We left him rather lingeringly, more particularly Rayne. 
We went down over the first plot of grass, the gravelled 
walk, and the lawn, in silence. Then she led me round a 
clump of bushes, and on to a path whose front was a low 

sea-wall. There was a break of a yard therein, a little 

further on. Arrived there, I saw a ladder, like those from 
bathing-machines, that touched the sand. 

We stayed a moment. Then I jumped down and held 
my hand up for her. She jumped past it, alighting well, 
and stepped seawards, I following. 

“I hope you didn’t mind my father going to sleep,” 
she said, as we moved off together, through the dry loose 
sand, tuneful to our heels. “He usually takes his nap 
after lunch; but to-day your coming disturbed him so that 


62 


A Child of the Age. 

he could n’t take it, and he is easily exhausted . . . now.” 
Her voice, too, fell. 

“ I am sorry,” I said. 

“ Why should you be sorry ? ” 

“ To have disturbed him. ” 

“ I did n’t mean that. I meant that it had excited him, 
thinking you were coming, and so he could n’t get to sleep 
after lunch. But that was n’t your fault.” 

We moved on in silence for a little. Then she said, 
“How beautiful the sea is now, and the sky.” 

We stopped a moment to look at them. 

“ I have never,” I said, “ seen the sea before that I can 
remember; and I cannot tell you why, but it seems to 
make me wish now to laugh and then to cry.” 

We walked on in silence again, for some twenty steps. 
Then, — 

“It is so,” she said. “Sometimes, early in the morn- 
ing, when I have come out, and the sun was shining, and 
everything seemed so happy, I have run down to the sea, 
dancing and singing. But when I saw how it lifted itself 
up, and threw out its arms once — twice — over and over 
again — on to the sand, and it seemed so tired, — so tired 
. . . I have stood and pitied it, till I felt the tears all com- 
ing out of my eyes. I think it is God who makes you pity 
the sea.” 

I laughed, and we moved on together again. 

Then we talked of Greek, and how we both loved it, 
and of Homer. And I could have cried out with pleasure 
when she said, straight off, the line : — 

/3^ 5’ aKecov irapa Blva 7roXv0Xoitr/3oto BciKdcrarrjs^ 

which I had thought one of the most beautiful “ ideas ” that 
I knew, — the old man going in silence down by the loud- 
sounding sea. And then we traced the words, with a 
stick, on the clean smooth sand, and she said that she 


63 


A Child of the Age. 

wished she knew how to put the accents on the words, for 
they didn’t look quite right without them; and I said 
that the general rules for marking the accents were very 
simple, and explained about oxyton, paroxyton, propar- 
oxyton, perispomen, properispomen, and other matters 
connected therewith. 

From that, in some way or other, we went to French, of 
which I knew next to nothing. But when I asked her, 
and she spoke some of it, it pleased me to listen to it as it 
came from her lips, — some poetry she had learned, and 
lastly, a little song. I was sorry when the song was over, 
and went on by her without a word, for a little, as if the 
music would continue of itself. Then 1 remembered, and 
said that I liked to hear her sing. This led us, somehow, 
to Italian, and she repeated some Italian too for me. 

“It must give you pleasure,” I said, looking at her, “ to 
know these beautiful languages.” 

“Well,” she answered, “it does please me sometimes; 
hut I ’ve known them ever since I was quite small, and so 
they seem somehow natural to me.” 

“ I have never been out of England,” I said. “ I should 
like to see Italy; I think I should like to die in Italy, 
where the sun shines always, and there is no cold wind and 
rain, and the fields are full of flowers.” 

“ But the wind does blow,” she said, “ horribly some- 
times. The sirocco in the autumn is terrible, and so are 
the spring winds in Florence, — so piercing and cold. All 
tlie people wrap themselves up in great cloaks. ” 

“ Ah, but,” I said, looking at her, “ that ’s not the time 
I was thinking of.” 

Then she began to tell me about Italy, and their life 
there. I asked particularly about the pictures and statues, 
telling her that the only pictures I had ever seen were 
in the Painted Chamber at Greenwich, and described 
the one of Nelson rushing, wounded, on deck, and the 


64 A Child of the Age. 

other of him being taken up, — a pale dead body, — into 
heaven. 

At that point we stopped (for walking on the bank of 
stones and shingJe on which we were was toilsome), and 
she looked aside, and up under the cliff, and I also. It 
was a sort of plateau, a few yards higher than the bank, 
covered with thick grass, and having small trees here and 
there. She was looking at one part of it. There were 
two small streams, — the one, larger a little than the 
other, — which made two small cascades, flowing down 
from a higher elevation through the grass, gathered tufts of 
which, and weeds, guided the flow into the round, earthen 
basin below. There was a gentle murmur, and by the 
right side a tree, with a faint shadow against the earthen 
wall behind. 

We climbed up. 

It was a pretty place. Clear streaks of color — all 
hues of red — on the earthen wall that was sheeted with 
the ruffled water; then from an arched break up above 
came the main stream, dividing, to cross and flow down 
the swaying grass and weeds into the round earthen basin. 

E.ayne sat down on a thick clump of grass under the 
tree, and I leaned against the wall with the line of water 
just by me. We were both quite happy, I think. 

All at once she jumped up, looking along the shore to 
the brown cliff that ended the bay. I looked also. 

“ We ’re caught! ” she said. 

There was a play of foam, as she spoke, at the foot of 
the brown cliff, behind which was the sun now almost, or 
altogether, set. She rose, crossed the plateau, jumped 
down on to the shingle, and started off at a run. I was 
up and after her in a moment. She ran well for a girl; 
but the shingle, giving with each footfall, was tiring to the 
limbs, and then there were her petticoats. She began to 
flag a little. We were still quite a hundred yards from 
the point. 


A Child of the Age. 


65 


“ Will you take my hand? ” I said, passing her. “ Let 
me help you. The stones! ” 

She would not; I fell back. We ran on as before. 

Looking down, as we came on to some smooth half-hard 
sand , I saw the “ 8’ ukcW ” which we had written ; the 

rest was washed out. 

At last we came to the point. The waves were dashing 
up foamingly all round. She went straight to a boulder, 
jumped on to it, and, with her hand against the brown 
earthen side, was about to step to another, when up had 
come a large, swelled, sideward wave, swirled over the 
hrst ring of rocks, and the next moment she was in a 
shower of spray. I stepped to try the boulder on wliich 
she was, caught firm hold of her round the hips, and, lift- 
ing her up, made straight onward. Up came another 
wave, but smaller, swept past and through my legs, up to 
the knees ; but I kept to both her and the ground’. She 
did not move, — one arm holding me firmly round the 
shoulders. I looked aside. There was a large wave just 
off shore, coming in swiftly. “ Kow! ” 

The wave went back. I dashed on, stumbled over a 
stone, recovered myself, a small leap, a run, and we were 
in the light of the setting sun, and she was standing on 
tlie sand before me. The billow struck through the first 
ring of rocks, and burst full upon the cliff, into a lit cloak- 
like shower of rainbow drops, flying through the soft sunny 
air. Then I looked at her; laughter was in her eyes, and 
on her lips, and in her face. 

“ I will never forgive you for not letting me get a duck- 
ing,” she said. “ I had set my heart on it.” 

She turned, and we hurried on, not saying much. I 
never had felt so happy in all my life. 

So we reached the garden wall, and she went up the 
ladder, and then I; along the path, round the bushes, 
and out on to the lawn. There we saw Mr. Cholme- 

5 


66 A Child of the Age. 

ley looking through a pair of lorgnettes along the other 
shore. 

She came np to him quietly, I following, and put her 
left arm round him, and said, — 

“Here we are, Daddy! I hope we haven’t kept you 
waiting for dinner?” 

“ Eh ? hey ? ” he said, smiling at her, with the lorgnettes 
lo^wered. Then looking at me, “ Why, I thought you 
would he sure to go along the shore towards Gremlin, 
child! ” 

And we went over the grass together, and up into the 
dining-room, laughing and talking. 


II. 

The fortnight I was at Seahay went like a spell of fair 
weather in November. 

"When I awoke one morning, and informed myself that 
this ■was the last day I should he here witli them, it 
seemed to me that I thought foolishly. Not even tliat 
evening, when we three were in the open air, — Mr. 
Cholmeley, in the armchair in tlie middle of the out-flung 
bay-window, Rayne, on a stool at his feet, touching him 
with her dear, beautiful hand from time to time, and I, 
half lying on and over the edge of the terrace, — not even 
then, with the certain quiet and sadness with us that was 
of a last evening together, could I realize that I was 
going away from the beauty and the life here with them, 
not to see either again for long, perhaps ever. 

We began to talk a little, — of work, its length and 
weariness, and the final rest when it was over; or rather, 
Mr. Cholmeley spoke of it, and every now and then she or 
I asked him of the things he told, or of other thoughts 
thereby. 


67 


A Child of the Age. 

Then slie left ns for a moment to go ter speak to !Mrs. 
Jacques about our breakfast, and I came up and sat in her 
place. 

For a little there was silence, and I knew somehow that 
he wished to speak to me about my mother. I waited 
quite calmly. He was trembling ; but at last the words 
came. 

He had felt that he had not done all he might have 
done for her. He ought to have remembered tliat he was 
the only person she had in the world of whom she had a 
right to expect care and affection; but he had not thought 
of it in that way then. As he had told me, they had seen 
so little of one another, that she did not seem to him to 
be his sister, and so “ sister ” had meant but a name that 
was not as near to him even as “ friend.” He was so full 
of other things then, — his studies, his work, — and she 
seemed happy and contented with her aunt. And then 
tliey both married, and she seemed happy and contented 
with her husband. He knew that he had done wrong ; it 
was clearly his duty, both as a man and her brother, to 
have befriended her. Perhaps if he had done so, she 
might never . . . God only knew! 

He was so moved that ail I saw good to do was to quieten 
him. 

I said, as I thought, that he had acted for the best, and 
tliat he could not be blamed. The questions that I would 
like to have asked him — what my mother had done, and 
wlien and why she had done it — were not, I saw, to be 
asked then. I was once almost afraid that he would do 
himself some harm; and, as I tried to soothe him, I felt 
ill some strange way that the pulse of life beat but faintly 
here, and, feeling it, grew sad. 

And so at last Rayno came back, and we talked of other 
things. 

The next morning she went with me down to the sta- 


68 


A Child of the Age. 

tion, to see me off. When I had got my ticket and seen 
that the box was all right in the luggage van, we walked 
lip and down the gravel platform, talking a little, — of her 
father, and of their going abroad, and when we might meet 
again. She seemed to have no idea that he was very ill, 
and mine, of the faint-pulsing life, having passed away, 
there was no certainty in me to tell her of what might, 
after all, have been no more than fancy. 

She would write to me once every month, she said; 
that was better than promising to write often, and not 
writing; for it is so difficult to know what to tell a person 
if you write often, and it is much nicer to have the whole 
month, and write to them when you feel inclined to. 
Didn’t I think so? Then I reminded her of her promise 
to learn hard at Latin, and of mine to learn hard at French, 
so that we might both know the same languages and com- 
pare our thoughts upon them. “And,” I said, “I shall 
set upon Italian soon, and see what I can make of it, and 
write and tell you.” 

And a little after that the train came up, and we went 
stepping down it, till we saw an empty carriage; and then 
I got into it and put my coat on the seat, and got down 
again by her. But we said little, standing together, and I 
now and then looking at her, and knowing a tremble in 
me and the lump, and would have held her and kissed 
lier on the lips, and said “Bayne,” and never let her go. 
But the last carriage-door banged to, and the porter was 
by mine, and there was a hurry to get in; and in the 
hurry, somehow I touched her hand, and she rose on her 
toes, with her cheek for me to kiss, and I kissed it; and 
then was I up in the moving train and not able to see her 
for the tears, till we ivere past the end of the station, 
when I saw her standing and waving her hand, with a 
smile on her dear sweet face. “ Oh, Bayne, Bayne! Oh, 
Bayne, Bayne! ...” 


A Child of the Age. 


69 • 


Glastonbury seemed very dull to me when I first came 
back from Seabay. I roamed about the fields in search of 
consolation for something I had lost, but could find little 
or none. It was a relief when the term began. 

I had determined to work hard. I did work hard, and 
this term I got my remove into the Sixth, and was under 
Craven. But it seemed that the moments of tastelessness, 
as Mr. Cholmeley had once said, were more frequent as the 
autumn grew more damp and decaying, and the moments 
of hopeful delight more rare. And all the while no letter 
from Bayne. 

At last — late on in September, that is — the letter 
came. She was sorry not to have written to me quite 
within the month, as she had said she would; but her 
father (“father” simply, as she wrote) had been very ill, 
and she could not settle down to write me a long letter 
about some things she had been thinking about, and she 
did not care to send to me “ a scribble. ” They had 
returned to Paris for a few weeks, to see a doctor there 
about father, and then back again to Switzerland, — Thiin, 
— which he was very fond of. What she had been think- 
ing about was her neglect of religious study. I can 
remember that some one had brought this home to her, 
and that she was reading the New Testament in the origi- 
nal, and a general idea of mine that she had a fit of religious 
seriousness upon her that puzzled me in a vague sort of 
way. I did n’t think about religion myself. I never had 
thought about it somehow. 

I answered her at some length, giving a summary of the 
authors I had read, and the impressions I had formed 
tlierrfrom, with occasional allusions to events or things 
that interested me, afterwards noticing to myself that I 
really was n’t thinking very much about her in connection 
with what I had written. I directed the letter, as slie 
told me, to a paste restante^ somewhere in Italy, where 
they were going shortly. 


• 70 A Child of the Age. 

Late in October her second letter came. I give it 
entire : — 

My dear Bertram, — It is a wet and tempestuous afternoon, 
and therefore I consider it a fitting occasion to answer your long, 
and with difficulty decipherable epistle. Yesterday was one of 
the hottest days I remember here, my thermometer going up to 
over 100° in the shade, and so I knew we should have thunder 
and lightning. We did have, of a sort, but utterly disappointing. 
Of course 1 went out of doors to see what would happen ; but 
beyond two livid sickly green flashes, all was thick pitchy dark- 
ness. So I returned a sadder and wiser woman, dripping wet. 
We have been enjoying the most glorious weltering simmering 
heat, and I am out of doors reading or rambling alone through 
the “ lustrous woodland,’' or else lazily boating, the whole day. 
You would never have got this letter written, if it had not been 
for the wet day. I don’t believe this place can be matched for 
pure natural beauty anywhere. Yesterday I went out in a boat, 
with two damsels. It was rough, and they were both sick and 
very afraid ; but there was a kind of new glory over everything, 
— the air marvellously clear, in preparation for the storm in the 
night, I suppose, the hills all a perfect indigo blue, and masses of 
cloud entangled in the “ misty mountain tops.” It was a 

“ Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
By waking sense or by the dreaming soul.” 

And I stood upright in the boat with my head bared, and revelled 
in it all, much to the disgust of the damsels in question. They 
should n’t have plagued me to take them out. ... I have got 
through two volumes of Carlyle’s “French Revolution,” as you 
desired, and am much impressed and edified. There is rather a 
tempest going on outside, and so I am going to try to dodge my 
dear old daddy and Sir James, and get out my boat and enjoy it. 
By-the-bye, I had forgotten to tell you that an old friend and 
favorite of ours. Sir James Gwatkin, has been staying with us this 
last week. He is a most amusing mondain en villegiature, with a 
marvellous French and Italian accent, and altogether a very 
amusing companion to father, and myself at times. lie knows 
what seems to me a great deal about Art, the Old Masters particu- 


A Child of the Age. 


71 


larly. Father is far from well. The spitting is very troublesome, 
and now often tinged with blood. Three days ago he sent my 
heart into my throat and made me quite restless for the night, by 
breaking a blood-vessel ; but he has felt far better since, he says, 
more free and relieved. The doctor says, too, that it has done 
him good. But I really must go out now. Excuse this final 
scrawl. I have hopes of a storm to-night. Love of course from 
the daddy. In haste, dear Bertrain, 

Truly yours, 

Rayne Cholmeley. 

P. S. — As we’re on the move, I’ll send you an address to 
send your answer to in a little. 

R. C. 

(The part about her standing up bareheaded in the boat 
thrilled me; the rest was almost interestiess.) 

One day, at the end of second lesson, Craven came 
upon a piece of Italian in one of his books of reference, 
and could not translate it all. He half-smilingly asked if 
any of us knew Italian 1 No one did. But I recalled 
some words of mine to Rayne, and determined that I would 
learn Italian. After second lesson, tlien, I went down to 
the school bookseller, and bought of him a little Italian 
dictionary and grammar. The man knew nothing of 
Italian literature, nor did I; I could not even remember 
any of the names Rayne had quoted, except Dante, 
Petrarca, and Boccaccio. But all at once I thouglit of 
jMacaulay’s Essay on Machiavelli, and of some words 
tlierein, and asked the man if he had a Machiavelli. 
After some search he found a little, red -paper-covered 
edition of the Frincijge* I said that would do, and 
bought it. 

I took it up to the school with me, and sat at it for the 
remaining half-hour before dinner, puzzled out six lines 
and a half, and came up to wash my hands for dinner, 
pleased. And after that I gave an hour per day to Italian, 


72 


A Child of the Age. 



at first only to learning the grammar, bat, up to the irregu-, 
lar verbs mastered, turned at last, joyfully, to my book,' 
and found it fairly easy and extremely interesting. It set 
me about thinking somewhat in this fashion : “ Most things ^ 
are this or that, because they are made this or that, — that- 
is to say, there are certain laws by observing which you 
can bring about certain results. It is surprising that tlie 
world, which I had somehow or other always supposed to 
be one great witness to the justice of God, seems to be, after 
all, rather more like a great stage on which the drama of ‘ 
Might over Right is perpetually being played. Now does ■ 
pure Right ever come off best ? — that is, does pure Right 
ever win by its own unadulterated piyity ? I rather doubt 1 
it. For, surely, when Right is crowned victor, there are 1 
certain laws which, having been observed, have brought I 
this about, and consequently Wrong, if it only knows how 1 
to observe these laws, is crowned victor also. Honesty is \ 
the best policy. Rogues can be honest.” 

But in a little came a certain disgust with the whole 
matter, and I determined not to think about it any more. 
But determination was wasted. This brought it about 
that, on more than one occasion, suddenly catching myself ] 
at the old thoughts which troubled me, I gave vent to a 
sharp, impatient “Damn! ” to the surprise of those who 
happened to hear me. I remember once, in second lesson, 
so losing patience with myself that, unconscious of the 
presence of any one, I let fly with my foot at a form in 
front of me, which went over with a loud bang on to the 
boards in a small dust-cloud; and as I sat motionless, 
frowning at my book, and answered nothing to the ques- 
tions Craven asked me about the matter, was given the 
lesson to write out twice, and afterwards was called up and 
spoken to on the subject. I preserved complete silence; 
for what was the good of telling a fool of this sort, who 
grew furious over a false quantity, and preached inverte- 


73 


A Child of the Age. 

brate sermons, the trntli ? I would as soon have thought 
of telling liim a lie. Well, 1 wrote out the lesson twice, 
and there that part of the affair ended. 

The Christmas holidays were an evil time. I gave 
myself np to, as it were, an entirely new consideration of 
affairs. A week’s close thought, out on my walks, in bed 
at night, often till after twelve or one o’clock, made me 
look upon the Bible as a fairy tale. Then came a fort- 
night or so of utter confusion, inexplicable to myself, — 
excitement of body and soul, wild dreams, visions or half- 
visions, a purgatory! Finally I emerged with a certain 
calmness to wonder at that time, — wonder that it had 
belonged to me. It seemed so dimly far away now, and as 
if belonging to some one else, and yet not to some one 
else, and yet not to me. 

The opening of the term wrought a change. A new 
form of the thing which had once done duty to me as 
woman came to me, producing an amount of longing for 
her and her love that frequently found vent in emotion, 
and even tears, over pencilled poetry sheets. Then Christ 
was introduced, as a sweet, tender friend who consoled me 
for her present absence, by telling me of her future com- 
ing. But, after a time, this too passed, and I returned to 
my old, doubtful state, deciding that happiness was un- 
doubtedly the end of life, and that happiness to me meant 
having written certain quietly delightful books, while I 
stayed alone, apart, in a dim place that had little to do 
with life, and nothing with death. My old idea of great- 
ness en Hoc was childish, absurd! My new trouble 
about God and the world was useless, absurd ! My ideas 
about everything were hopelessly vague! Happiness and 
selfishness are synonymous terms. Everybody is selfish. 
Good men are good because they could n’t be happy bad. 
Bad men are bad because they could n’t be happy good. 
Men who are the most unselfish are the most selfish; the 


74 


A Child of the Age. 


very pain that tlieir unselfishness causes - tliem is their 
pleasure. Therefore, when I intend to he happy I am 
simply intending what everybody intends. It was sur- 
prising how calm I grew upon this and other thoughts; 
how quietly assured of my uninterrupted course towards 
the cultured happiness that I now began to look upon as 
mine. 

Then suddenly an incident occurred. Some way on in 
February, one Saturday afternoon, just after dinner, to 
me, sitting up in the bedroom, looking through some of 
tlie De Oratore for third lesson, enter Armstrong, who 
throws me a letter, and exit. I pick it up, recognize 
Colonel James’s handwriting, open, and read it. He 
must request my presence in London immediately, on 
important matters. I could apply to Dr. Craven for the 
necessary funds. There was a train arrived in London, 
to-morrow, about one. (The letter was addressed from a 
street adjoining Piccadilly. I forget its name.) He 
hoped I should not be later than that; he had something 
of the greatest importance to communicate to me. I must 
excuse a hasty letter, but the state of his health at present 
made every unusual effort very painful to him. 

I at once went in to see Craven about it. 

I came out from the short interview, a little puzzled. 
He had heard from Colonel James, he said. He gave me 
enough money for my fare, second class to London, and a 
few shillings over. I might start when I liked. I told 
him (I don’t know why) that I thought I should take the 
early morning train, as Colonel James had mentioned it as 
one that would do. 

As I was dressing for tea, it suddenly occurred to me 
that I had heard somewhere about a train which left Glas- 
tonbury about six, and got into London pretty late that 
night. Why not go by it? As well as not! 

When I had dressed, I went into Mother McCarthy’s 


75 


A Child of the Age. 

to see if she had a time-table. She had. I found that 
there was a train left Glastonbury at 5.55, or so, and got 
into London at about eiglit. I looked at the clock. It 
was twenty minutes to six now. I would try it! 

I had bought a glazed black bag last holidays, as being 
a useful sort of thing for a peripatetic to have. I got a 
clean nightgown, a clean shirt, a couple of collars, a pair 
of socks, and some handkerchiefs out of my linen locker, 
went back into my room, fished the black bag from under 
my bed, packed in the things I wanted, took my great- 
coat off the peg, and started away. 

I swung into tlie station at four or five minutes after the 
train was due to start. I had a sharp cut and run on to 
and down the platform, and got into an empty carriage just 
as it moved off. The liveliness of tiie whole afiair delighted 
me. I felt for a little something like an excited child. 

The journey did not seem long to me; for I slowly fell 
into my dim thought- world, and only came out of it for a 
moment when (about half-way, I think) a fat old gentle- 
man got into the carriage, with a bulged old carpet-bag, 
wliicli he put on to the seat beside him, then took a news- 
paper from his inside breast-pocket, put on a pair of black 
horn pince-nez, and began to read. Just before London 
they collected the tickets, and I became aware that I felt 
empty, internally; I had had no tea. But I went back 
into my old dim though t-world again, and was not out of 
it vvhen we glided down a long, gas-lit platform, and it was 
borne in on me that we were in London. 

I got into a hansom, and gave Colonel James’s address 
to the driver. We drove through many streets, mostly 
having little traffic in tliem, till we drew up suddenly 
before a house, above the door of which was an oblong 
of glass, lit by a gas-lamp, and in the middle, in black 
figures, 15, — Colonel James’s number. I got out, paid 
the driver, and rang at the bell. The door was opened, 


76 


A Child of the Age. 

almost immediately, by a man in evening dress, with a 
napkin in his hand. I asked, did Colonel James live 
here? He said, Yes, he did. I said, — 

“ Can I see him 1 ” 

The Curling wasn’t very well this evening, sir, he said. 
He was upstairs there with his cawfee just now, sir. He 
(the man in evening dress, with a napkin) didn’t think 
he ’d like to be disturbed; but I might give him (the man) 
my card, and he ’d take it up to him. 

“I have no card,” I said. “My name is Leicester. 
Will you tell Colonel James that I came to-night instead 
of to-morrow, and want to know if I can see him 1 ” 

The man turned, and went slowly up the first few stair- 
case steps, then half-turned, and said, — 

“ Leicester was tlie name you said ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “Leicester.” 

I leaned against the glazed-paper wall, looking at a large 
print of Wellington meeting Blucher after Waterloo. A 
clock ticked in an adjacent room. I heard the man from 
the top of the stairs say, — 

“ Will you step up, please? ” 

I put bag and hat on to a dark-red mahogany chair by an 
umbrella stand, and went up. The man ushered me in 
through an open door to the right. I entered. 

The first thing I saw was the part of a large, low, red- 
clotlied table, under the light of a red-shaded lamp, then a 
rather thin old gentleman, standing on the right side of 
tlie hearthrug, with his back to the fire. He raised his 
head ; there was a light-flash on his glasses. 

He spoke. 

“ Mr. Leicester? ” he said. 

“ Yes, sir,” I answered. 

“ Ah, yes, — exactly so.” 

He paused, looking aside; then again raised his head, 
with the light-flash on his glasses. 


77 


A Child of the Age. 

“Will you please sit down,” he said. “Perhaps you 
would like to take your coat off? It is very warm in here, 
I dare say,^ — after the street.” 

I slowly took off my great-coat, and then sat down in a 
chair by the table, facing him, he remaining standing. 

After a pause, — 

“ You have rather taken me by surprise, Mr. Leicester,” 
he said. “ I, ah, did not expect you till to-morrow morn- 
ing, as you have said, — as you have said. Did Dr. Craven 
give you any information about the, ah, reason for your 
journey?” (Looking up at me as before.) “Ko? he did 
not? Very well. He acted wisely. I have every possible 
reason tg believe that Dr. Craven is a man of distinguished, 
ah, forethought.” (He kept on inserting “ah’s” in that 
way all the while.) 

Another pause. Then, — 

“ I have a very had piece of news to give you, Mr. 
Leicester,” he said. “ I am much afraid so, — I am much 
afraid so. But I think tliat I had better give it you at 
once, and without, ah, preamble. Your father’s small 
personal fortune, amounting to, ah, from £120 to £130 a 
year, was invested in — given up to (I am not quite sure 
about the correct expression ; hut it is, ah, immaterial) — ■ 
to a bank in which he had every confidence. I constantly, 
during his later years, did my best to prevail upon him 
to — ah, make some other investment with his money, as, 
ah, I had myself seen a very sad — ah, incident in my own 
family, in connection with — banks. You may have heard 
that the Great Southern Bank has recently, ah, become 
insolvent, or whatever it is? No? Well, ah, it is so, 
and every hour is bringing in worse information on the, 
ah, matter. It is, you may perhaps see, Mr. Leicester, 
quite impossible for you to continue your career at — Glas- 
tonbury. Every penny of your father’s money has — gone. 
I, ah, have, I am glad to say, absolutely nothing to — to 


78 


A Child of the Age. 

do with it myself, personally. . . . Have you any, ah, 
designs yourself as to a future, ah, career^” 

I put my hand to my mouth, looking steadily at him. 
He glanced aside and back again, as before. 

“ I am not to return to Glastonbury ? ” I asked. 

“ Ah, surely not.” 

I spoke rather to myself than to him. 

“ Hot to work any more ? not to be able to read my 
books? not to le'arn? Why, all my books are there, with 
all the notes I have taken such trouble to write out, — and 
I here. . . . What must I do ? ” 

There was a pause. 

I rose, and said, — 

“ I can only think of one thing, sir. I have, I believe, 
some brains, and, I believe, of that sort which can be 
turned to use. I have more than once desired 'to wi-ite. 
If I only had time, I am confident that I could make my 
livelihood — ” 

“Good heavens, sir!” he exclaimed, “you are not 
thinking of becoming a — a writer. Ah! Why, it is, ah, 
another word for starvation ! ” 

“ Men have made their fortune with nothing but their 
pens to help them before now,” I said, “and I am not 
afraid.” 

I noticed a thick blue vein swelling out on his forehead. 
He threw up his hands, and exclaimed, vehemently, — 

“ It is madness, — madness, — sheer, ah , insanity ! I will 
not hear of it ! I will give you no help! ” (He seemed 
suddenly to collapse.) “ You must go away. I must ring 
for Salmon, to show you out; you must go away. You are 
agitating me — dreadfully ; I am not to be agitated. Doctor 
Astley says so, — I am not to be agitated.” 

At first I was startled, then amused, then saddened, last 
angered, by this unexpected outburst. I moved a step 
nearer to him. He looked at me for a moment, and then 


A Child of the Age, 79 

dropped into tlie armchair, by him, to the right of the 
fire. 

“Oh, don’t touch me! ” he cried. “ Don’t look at me 
like that! I will not have it! I will not endure it! 
Salmon, — Salmon, take him away. He agitates me. . . . 
Please go away, sir. I am dreadfully agitated.” (I was 
looking at him, frowning. He cried out, almost in a 
scream) — “For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that! 
My God, my God, my God ! . . . She used to look . . .” 
(Then he suddenly started up, exclaiming) — “I say I 
won’t endure it! Do you hear? I won’t endure it! 
Don’t act at me, sir! I know it ’s in your blood; but if 
you think you ’re going to browbeat me, you ’re mis- 
taken! ” (Then he began to fail.) “ Salmon, he is going 
to act at me. No, no — you ’re not as careful of me as 
Edgar used to be. Why did I ever let him go ? — Why 
did I ever let him go?” (Ending in a wail.) 

I began to grow a little weary of it, and looked aside. 
He went on maundering about her having killed him, — 
yes, killed him, — and other things which I did not notice. 
At last came a pause. I determined to go, then thought of 
some questions I would care to ask him, and said, — 

“ I cannot understand, sir, why you have spoken to me 
like this. I know nothing of my father or my mother. 
You say you were my father’s friend — ” 

“So I was,” he wailed, — “so I was, — till she came 
between us.” 

I gave my teeth an impatient clench, then bit my lip, 
and closed my right liand with all my strength, determined 
not to say what was now on my tongue; what good could 
it do ? 

I said, “ I have nothing left, then, — • absolutely nothing ? ” 
He stared at me half-vacaiitly. 

“Absolutely nothing,” he repeated. 

A new resolution came to me, to leave the questions 
unasked , and go — go at once. 


80 


4 Child of the Age. 


“ Good-niglit, sir,” I said, “ I will leave you now.” 

He stared at me as before. 

“ You are not, all, going? ” he said. 

" Yes, sir, I am going,” I said. “ Good-night.” 

As I was turning away, he started up convulsively, and 
burst out, — 

“ But it is insanity! I will not hear of it! I will not 
endure it! I am your guardian. Do you hear, sir, that I 
am your guardian? Salmon! Damn the man! Salmon, 
I say — ” 

I was out of the door, and had closed it to. I could 
hear his voice, now wailing, as I went to the head of the 
stairs; then it died away. I found my bag and hat in the 
hall ; my coat was over my arm. I do not remember either 
having taken it up, or put it there. I went on to the hall- 
door, opened it, after a little trouble with the latch, went 
out, pulled it to, by its big, round, brass handle in the 
middle, — once, twice, — and passed over the step, and on 
to the pavement. It was raining. 

I walked on into a main street, and then, turning to the 
right, walked on down it. The perpetual movement of 
people, and horses, and things about me brought a feeling 
into me that I had never felt before; I forgot about myself, 
and my own affairs, and my hunger in considering them 
all. So I went on till I came to a corner where the main 
street ended; there I somewhat mechanically crossed. As 
I reached the pavement on the other side, I heard a man 
call out twice, “ Kil-burn! Kil-burn! ” and looked at him, 
standing, keeping on by a strap with one hand, and hold- 
ing out the other, on an omnibus perch. 

“ Kilburn,” I thought, “ is the farthest place he goes to. 
Probably, then, it ’s a suburb. I may as well go there 
as anywhere, for what I intend to do. At any rate, I ’ll 
see. 

And with that went straight to the omnibus stop, and 


81 


A Child of the Age. 

clambered up, by the ladder, on to the top, where I found 
myself exchanging looks with a man sitting on another 
omnibus that just then passed by. I laid the bag down, 
and put on my coat, when the conductor got up, crossed 
to my side, and began removing the tarpaulin from the 
seat. I thanked him, and sat down, with the hag heside 
me, and took to half-absently watching the people passing 
in and out of the light from the shop-windows as we drove 
on. We drove on for some time. 

At last we turned into a long, straight, rather dark 
street, — Ed g ware Koad, I heard the driver say. As we 
were some way up it, I noticed what seemed torches, or 
something of tlie sort, flaring by the right side, at the top, 
just above where it bifurcated. I determined to get down 
there. 

AVe stopped on the left side, just below them. I let 
myself down, with my bag in my teeth, and paid the con- 
ductor my fare, — 2d. or 3d . , I forget which. Then I 
turned from him, crossed the street, and sauntered on, 
looking at the stalls. There were not many people along 
tile pavement; the hawkers cried their cries rather plain- 
tively: one old man, sitting in front of an oven with a 
imall steam-jet, cried out every now and then, sharply, 
“’Ot! 'Ot! ” 

It was still raining, and it seemed colder. I sauntered 
on. A tall girl, witli a singularly well-made body and 
well-poised head, moved with a long swinging step in 
front of me. She stopped in a moment, to buy some nuts, 
and I saw her face. It was pleasant to look at it; so pure 
and clear-cut, with crystal eyes, and red rarefied lips, and 
large, regular, white teeth. I followed her slowly, think- 
ing of her dear face; I felt sure she would love me if she 
knew me. 

She stopped to listen to a man addressing a few gaunt, 
shivering children, whose faces formed a line along the 

A 


82 


A Child of the Age. 

far side of his stall. I went up close to her, and looked 
at her; she was eating nuts, and every now and then let 
the shell-bits fall out of her mouth, down her black coat, 
to the ground. At last she turned her eyes to mine, then, 
exclaimed, in an undertone, — 

“ Oh, my! I hope you ’ll know me next time you see 
me, young man.” 

I turned away and crossed the road; I faced a pawn- 
broker’s. An idea came to me. I went in, — into a 
dusky clothes-hung place, where a man was sprawling over 
the counter, under a large gas-jet, with a cigar in his 
mouth. I said, — 

“I want to sell this great-coat; what will you give me 
for itr’ 

“ Let’s see it, sir,” he said. 

I took it off. 

In the end he gave me fifteen shillings for it. It was 
quite new. 

I went out and counted my money before the next, — a 
jeweller’s shop-window, — which was brightly lit up. I 
had one shilling and sevenpence half-penny in my pocket. 
That left me fourteen shillings and ninepence for myself; 
for I owed Colonel James threepence for my omnibus fare. 
This, and the rest, he should have at once. Some day (I 
hoped soon) he should have to the last farthing I owed 
him. I turned away, putting his money into one trouser 
pocket, and my own into the other, and went on for a 
little; then feeling the rain and the air colder, and under 
some unnoticed impulse, turning up my coat-collar, I 
recrossed the road, and wandered on. I did not remark 
particularly where I went, only that I turned down the 
narrowest streets I happened to see. 

All at once my eye was caught by a card in a small 
window I was passing. I stopped to look at it. The 
window, or rather, a linen blind, was lit up from within, 


A Ckild of the Age. 83 

the card marking a small oblong on the ledge of one of the 
upper panes. I looked closer, to read the actual letters, — 
“ Apartments. ” 

Not seeing either bell or knocker, I rapped at the door 
with my knuckles. 

An old woman, holding up a guttering candle, half- 
opened it. I said, — 

“ Do you let apartments ? ” 

“ I ’ve a room. Yes.” 

“ How much is it a week ? ” 

“ Five shillings a week, sir.” 

“ Oh! ” 

A pause. I turned away, considering. 

“But 1 think I could take four, sir, perhaps? ” she said. 

“ Will you let me see it? ” I asked. 

“Please step upstairs, sir. Mind the wall, sir, — it 
comes off.” 

I followed her upstairs. 

I took the room, and paid for two weeks in advance. 

The furniture consisted of a bed, a washing-stand, a 
table, a chair, and two ragged scraps of carpet, — one under 
the table, one by the side of the bed. There was a look- 
ing-glass over the chimney-piece, and three photographs in 
faded violet frames of velvet, worn out, — Napoleon III., 
the Empress Eugenie, and the Prince Imperial, as a boy. 
She had left a gas-jet turned full on. 

I bolted the door, and began pulling off my coat, when 
I felt the emptiness inside me again. I sat down on the 
unsteady chair, and began thinking about what had 
occurred to me to-day; but I soon gave it up, rose, and for 
a moment stood irresolute whether to go out and get some 
food, or to ask this woman — Mrs. Smith — for some, or to 
get into bed without any. At last I thought I would get 
into bed. Sleep — cool, quiet sleep — would calm and 
refresh me. 


84 


A Child of the Age. 


I threw my waistcoat on to the top of the coat, and stood 
irresolute again, stretching my arms np and down. Then 
an impulse came to me. I fell down on to my knees, and 
leaning my arms on the bed, leaned my head on my arms. 
I began in a half whisper, — 

“ If there be a God — ” 

After a pause, of thought almost as much as of words, I 
said, — 

“ I ask You, — God, — if You are, to have pity on me if 
I am blindly wandering, and to lead me to know You some 
day before I die. I don’t know how I am going, but I 
know where I desire to go, and yet I don’t know more than 
that it is somewhere.” Then the feeling of light and 
shadow, dream and reality, an eclipsed sun and moon, 
came to me so strongly that I got up again, slowly, with 
the intention of saying no more prayers that night. The 
things around me were all in a sort of noise above my ears. 
I went and turned out the gas, and then slowly undressed, 
in the dark save for the light that came from a gas-lamp 
in the street through the far window. 

I pulled down the upper-clothes, got into bed, sank into 
enclosing coolness, and very soon, sleep. 


III. 

YV HEN I first woke up, I thought I was back in my room 
at Glastonbury; then recalled, but slowly, all that had 
happened the day before. That next-day awakening was 
a dreary thing ; everything that I had done seemed so pur- 
poseless. It would be better to marry a red-cheeked 
woman with untidy gold hair and a brown homely dress, 
and smoke a pipe in the sun all day while she brushed out 
the house. The picture I conjured up made me laugh 
aloud. I leaped out of bed. The sun was sliining. 


A Child of the Age. 


85 


I went to the other far window, polled down the upper 
part, and looked out. The air clear and rather sharp, but 
not cold, as something almost corporal to my inhaling 
lungs. I had no watch; it was about half-past seven or 
eight, I thought. A man came with sounding steps down 
the street, and passed invisibly below me. I pulled up 
the window again, stripped, and prepared to wash. Such 
a little jug, and such a little basin! And no sponge! — ■ 
what was I to do without a sponge? 

I made the best of it, — dried myself on the one flabby 
towel, and began to dress. Dressed quickly, and then, 
taking up my hat, went slowly downstairs. 

At the house door I met Mrs. Smith coming out of the 
room on the left, where I had seen the card. I said, 
“Good-morning,” and she said, “Good-morning, sir,” and 
I asked if there was a park anywhere near ? (I had an idea 
that there were parks all about London.) She told me 
that it was about ten minutes’ sharp walk to the Regent’s 
Park, and gave me some confused directions how to get 
there. I bought a half-pound of dates and a large brown 
loaf at a shop close by, and with these under my arm, 
asked my way, which was a very simple one, passed out of 
a somewhat dirty road, through some lodge-gates, and so 
over two bridges into the Park itself. I sauntered along 
the side of the lake, looking at the swans and ducks. 

It was a glorious morning. The sun breatlied a gentle 
heat upon me, and warmed me gratefully. The dew was 
still on the grass: a few people hurried across by the path- 
ways: every now and then a duck whirred through the air. 
I reached another bridge, went on to it, and stood and 
watched a flight of sparrows bathing themselves wantonly 
in the shallows of a small bay on the far shore. 

“ It is beautiful,” I said. 

I ate my dates and loaf on a seat beside a tree on an ele- 
vation that runs up there, parallel to the curve of the lake. 


86 


A Child of the Age. 

The loaf was of good, thick, crumby bread, and satisfied, 
without satiating, me; the dates, — a half-pound, 4c?., — 
gave the bread a flavor. The only tiling that seemed 
lacking w’as a crystal stream from which I might drink a 
pure cool draught. My breakfast done, I rose almost 
readily, and went back again to tlie bridge that leads to 
tlie gates. For the fight is begun, and loitering looks like 
laggarduess. 

Finding myself in the road that led to my street, — 
Maitland Street, — and opposite a small newspaper-sta- 
tioner’s, I went in and invested in a pen, nibs, ink, and 
paper, — these were my weapons. Then I proceeded on 
home, went upstairs, found my bed already made (which 
was pleasing), put my weapons on the table, myself into 
the chair, and, tilted back, began to consider. 

1 had seen somewhere or other that Byron received 
£600 or so for his shorter pieces, — “ The Bride of 
Abydos,” “Giaour,” etc. There is, then, surely a good 
chance of my getting at least £30, or perhaps £20, if my 
book sells well, for two pieces, each of (say) 600 lines. 
On that I could subsist for a long time; and a long time 
meant more poems, and more money. You see, if you 
only live as economically as I am going to . . . Well, 
many things may be done. 

After a little preliminary thought, I came to this: I had 
had these almost two years two tales in my head, — that 
is, connected narratives with a definite beginning and end; 
a story, a fact, not the embodiment of a passing humor 
that, being exalted, has to be climbed up to, but a narra- 
tive to be clothed in the best clothes I could put on it, 
and then sent on a journey with the reader, to amuse and 
try to instruct him, if only in a lesson of pathos, on the 
road. I at once set upon the first of my “ tales.” 

By the time it grew dusk, I had finished over two hun- 
dred lines of it. I was not at all satisfied; I had not, I 


87 


A Child of the Age. 

thought, twined the melody of the rhythm enough into 
the sense, — that is, had lost some of the scent, in trans- 
pianting my flower. I was afraid of becoming a mere 
painter, and losing the scent altogether. Still, I reflected, 
the less subtle I try to be, the more likely am I to please 
those who are likely to read this poem of mine. One 
must live prose before one lives poetry. Prose is paying 
for your cake, and poetry is eating it. Get something to 
support your body first, — the body is the keystone. It is 
no good having your brain full and your belly empty, for 
at that rate you soon die, and look foolish. 

For all such thoughts I was a little ashamed of what 
I had done. My muse had not moved me; she dwelt but 
in the suburbs of my good pleasure. “ Well, well, it can- 
not be helped.” So I left her there, and went out into 
the streets to buy stamps, and return Colonel James his 
money. 

I wandered far that night. At last to the Serpentine, 
where I stood some little time, trying to explain the lamp 
reflections across the water, — two together, large space, 
two together. Then I must have gone down Piccadilly, 
and through Leicester Square, then into the Strand, I 
think, and so down by Charing Cross station ; for 1 went 
under a bridge, and ended on the Embankment. 

I came home with an “aerial breathlessness ” upon me, 
sat down to my poem, and finished it. It had, indeed, 
moved me this time : two tears had fallen from my eyes. 
But what I had heard called “ mysticism ” by some people 
(meaning, as I supposed, that it seemed so to them) had 
run riot, and I knew that I had not written what I meant 
to write. I lost patience; it seemed very hard that I 
should not be allowed to try to do my best. I thought, 
not unbitterly, of the thousands of silly men and women 
who squandered on luxury for mere luxury’s sake, or 
hoarded for mere hoarding’s sake, that which would enable 


88 


A Child of the Age. 


me. . . . Then it struck me that sometimes men starved. 
The thought seemed like a cruel being of darkness. I 
looked up sharply, almost hearing a sort of clang of its 
departing wings. And there arose a circling black cloud, 
from the outer dark-smokiness of which many, many eyes 
looked at me, — the eyes of the many, many men who had 
struggled and perished. I glanced up sharply again, 
almost hearing my own mental reply: “Ay, but great 
men never struggled and perished; they always struggle 
and win.” But still that circling black cloud stayed, 
with the many, many eyes looking at me from the outer 
dark-smokiness, the eyes of the many, many men who had 
struggled and perished. 

For four days I worked at my two poems, finished them, 
and, sauntering out that night, looked into a newspaper, 
shop’s window by chance, and there noted a publisher’s 
name and address on a board below, and sent him the 
poems next day. I had said nothing more to him than 
that I begged to submit them for his inspection, enclosing 
stamps for their return, in case of rejection. I was sure 
that he would take them. 

I spent most of my time in my room, either writing 
more poetry, or reading and studying a Shakespeare 
which I had bought for a few pence in the Edgware Boad 
market, one Saturday night, from an amusing man who 
was selling off a cartload of books to the stolid people as 
he best could. Generally, in the late afternoon, I went 
out for a walk into the Kegent’s Park, feeling as if I were 
away from the streets and the lifeworn people there. 
Many happy hours were spent by me, wandering, whist- 
ling, over the middle grass plateau (it seemed to me like a 
plateau), thinking of my work, and, sometimes, of the 
dear woman to whom some day I should tell all of this; 
for she had come back to me now, and not quite what she 


89 


A Child of the Age. 

had ever been before, — more real because more gentle, 
more loving, more true, knowing what was in my heart 
and soul, and having much in her own heart and soul that 
mine would be glad to know of. Often I watch the sun 
setting in the cloud banks, and once saw him, in the dim, 
slatey sky-layer, hanging like a blood-red spider, gradu- 
ally covered with a sort of dusty smokiness and darkened, 
till he was wrapped invisible from me. 

I lived all the time on bread, with an occasional relish 
of fruit, or a glass of milk. 

I soon learned my way about, at any rate, in one great 
block that was between Regent’s Park and the Thames, by 
Charing Cross. I was very fond of wandering by night, 
especially to the top of Primrose Hill, to look out over the 
great city, and the rings of light closer to, as in a vestibule- 
court of an almost boundless palace-building. Especially, 
too, I loved the populous streets, — like Oxford Street and 
the Strand. 

One night I had wandered along Oxford Street, passed 
the Circus, and then turned down on the right, into the 
block of buildings that is between Seven Dials and Regent’s 
Street; had wandered on and on, till I found myself in 
dim streets, in which every now and then shadows as of 
women moved with a certain inspiration of fear. I passed 
close to some of them, drawn as by some latent power of 
fascination on the ground and in them, but not looking at 
their faces; till, at last, passing somewhat quickly into an 
alley, I met one face to face under a protruding shadowed 
lamp. For a moment I stood breathless, with my eyes in 
the mad wolfishness and glitter of hers; and then, like a 
lightning flash that fills the whole air, terror of her filled 
me quite. I leaped aside, and then passed her, plunged 
into a dark-covered way that was behind and beyond her, 
and hurried on, past two silver-ornamented women who 
stood laughing and talking at a corner shop-door, out 


90 


A Child of the Age. 


into a city street again, — not streets of this city of hor- 
rihle shadowiness ! But the impression of that place, its 
shadowed air, its shadowed women, and the mad wolfish- 
ness and glitter of their ej^es was upon me all that night, 
turning my sleep into a nightmare. It was several days 
before that impression left me. 

It was about this time that a vague idea came to me 
that I had caught some fever. My hands were so hot at 
nights, and cheeks and ears; I grew so impatient, too. 
One evening I tilted over the table; and the ink-bottle 
was in the middle of my scattered blacked sheets, on the 
floor, and I was almost crying, and had scarcely heart to 
pick the things up again. 

This was the evening I determined to go down to Nor- 
folk Square, and see the house in which Clayton lived. I 
rose from the table, where I had been reading with the 
light of a coflin-wicked dip-candle (the gas was an extra 
shilling a week), took up my hat, and set out. It was 
a long walk. At last I entered Norfolk Square, — a 
long, dark oblong, with a long, black, thin-railed garden 
in the middle. And when I found out No. 21, I was 
facing a lampless, eyeless house, up from the area rails 
of which protruded a towering “ To Let ” board. In a 
few moments, standing, I realized this, and turned away 
sick at heart. I was quite alone in this city, — this 
careless, cruel London; and if I were to lie down there in 
the hollow under the garden rails, and sleep, and never 
wake again, there would be no one — not a man, not a 
woman, not a child — who. ... I gave up the thought as 
I began walking. I had never realized that I was quite 
alone here before this. The realization seemed to deaden 
the soul in me; my later weary w^andering of that night 
saw nothing of what was around me. I reached home 
somehow, and bed, and sleep. 

The next morning I went for a long walk out to Hendon, 




91 


A Child of the Age, 

and when I got there, lying on the grass, felt too languid 
to move; till, at last, I summoned enough resolution to set 
off home again. It was two when I got there, — hungry, 
and yet not hungry, thirsty, and yet not thirsty, hot, and yet 
shivering. I sat down, lounged over the table, and began to 
read at the opened Shakespeare. I read on till it grew a 
little dusk. All at once a few of the letters seemed to dis- 
appear, or to have disappeared. I strained my eyes. More 
went. I peered closer; two atmospheric circles, almost 
invisible, were out-turning on either side of my sight. In 
a little I could make out nothing but a blurred mass where 
the two small printed pages had been. I closed them up, 
then leaned my face in my arms, over the table, and closed 
my eyes; but the two atmospheric circles, almost invisible 
still, were out-turning on either side of my sightlessness. 
I felt dimly that I had made that movement somewhere 
before; perhaps in a dream? No, it was not in a dream. 
I remember now. It was once when a boy (and that is 
why it may have seemed at first like a dream to me) went 
to the bench, and, half upon it, leaned his face in his 
arms, on the cool table-cover. . . . And could not weep 
soft tears; the tears were dried behind his eyes. 

I started up impatiently. I was crying; my hands were 
wet with my tears. This was all accursed folly, — hys- 
teria, like a woman. What was the matter with me? Was 
I ill? Or going to be ill? Or what? ... I was tired; 
that was all. It was nothing more. But my eyes! . . . 
Oh, God, if I break down I “ Nay ! ” I cried aloud, smiling 
through my tears. “I’m the boy who says there is no God ! 

‘ The fool hath said in his heart — ’ Cha! that ’s David’s 
opinion. If ever I write Psalms, I ’ll put it the other 
way on. David was the man who never saw the righteous 
deserted nor the righteous man begging his bread. There ’s 
‘inspiration’ for you! You blind old driveller, you! 
Into the ditch, I say! There ’ll be plenty of your tribe to 


92 


A Child of the Age. 

follow.” I smiled again, but differently: “Still Kebes, 
always hunting out something! ” 

I had waited for thirteen days now. 

It happened that, the afternoon after I had the affair 
with the eyes, coming home from Hampstead Heath by 
the Grove End Road, with my eyes, as usual, on the 
ground, I saw what looked like a small part of a silver 
coin, in a heap of dust by a lamp-post. I stopped, bent, 
stretched down my hand, and found a two-shilling piece. 
I looked up. I could see no one in the road, no one 
behind me. I might take it, then; for how could I possi- 
bly find its owner? And to have found it; I, who had 
never found anything in my life before! It seemed quite 
strange. I had three shillings now. That meant another 
fortnight. On the force of it, I got a glass of milk, as I 
went down the Edgware Eoad. 

I came home almost buoyant, and had run up the two 
first steps before I saw some one was descending. I drew 
down, and back. It was a petticoated being, — a girl, but 
of what sort, the dark of the place and the duskiness of 
the hour combined to hide. Anyhow, she said, “Thank 
you,” and went on, and I up; and, as I went to my door, 
I thought that the one on the left must be hers. But per- 
haps she sleeps up in the attics, like a clay -homed swal- 
low ? Then I remembered to have heard muffled stirring 
in that room by mine, and concluded it must, indeed, be 
hers, and proceeded to forget all about the matter. 

The next day was chilly and rainy. I set out for a 
walk to Hampstead; for I must, I felt, take exercise to 
keep “ breakdown ” at a fit distance. I had some trouble 
with my heel, which had become sore; till, at last, by the 
time I was three-quarters there, economical, pain-shirking 
foot positions had made every step painful. None the 
less, I was determined to get as far as the Hampstead 


93 


A Child of the Aye. 

Pond. It began to drizzle. I toiled on. I found once 
that deep thoughts made me forget the pain of movement; 
so I kept trying this plan, with short-timed success, till 
(now a quarter way back again, and the rain tliicker) a 
desperate attempt to separate body and soul by resolution 
proved fruitless. Then an utter despair came upon me. 
I stood still. It was at a corner, in front of the rails of 
the dingy garden of a lampless house. I could have sunk 
down upon the shining pavement there, covered my face 
with my arms, and sobbed myself, like a tired child, to 
sleep; but, oh, a sleep that should know no waking, — no 
waking to misery and despair! At that moment a light 
leaped up and out from the big window on the left of the 
door. I saw it, but did not move. Then I leaned against 
the nearer hard cemented gate-post, in that dreary rain ofc’ 
half-darkness, and my body seemed all bloodless. A girl, 
with her dress huddled up all round her, showing dainty 
white petticoats, and dark-colored stockings, and with a 
nice umbrella spread over her, came hurrying up to me. 
I looked at her slowly. She gave me a quick glance, and 
hurried more. A devil rose in me. I made a short half- 
step after her. I would seize her, tear that thing from 
her hand, rip and rend her laced clothes, — rip and rend 
them off her, — till she stood tattered, naked, there in the 
rain of the half-darkness with me! And all I would 
desire more, would be to take mud and bespatter and befoul 
her, and then turn and go on my way with Avild laughter. 
The thoughts were lightning swift. I gave a cry of fierce- 
suppressed delight, stepped, and halted. Was I mad? I 
turned, and went back, and on. 

When I got home, I set upon a poem by the light of a 
new dip. If I had had to die for it, alone, and in the 
early gray morning, I could not have kept out my mysti- 
cism now. I must speak to some one noAV ; it could not 
always be silence. I had need to speak to some one. I 


94 


A Child of the Age. 

thought my heart was breaking; and I could not fall asleep 
till I had told my death-tale. 

But I was too weary to finish it. I gave it up at last. 
I was in an evil plight, I knew, — burning and shivering, 
and with an empt}'- stomach. I undressed slowly, as usual, 
in the dark, save for the light that came from the gas-lamp 
in the street through the far-window. As I got into bed, 
I determined that the next day I would seek some work, 
even manual; for I did not, after all, care to die till I had 
heard about my poems (it was ridiculous! I smiled, but 
in a strange, sad way), and I should have to pay four 
shillings at the end of the week, — rent, — and I had only 
three left for food. “ Wherefore, work must be done, if 
money is to be earned, — work, even manual; and why 
not ? ” At last I fell asleep. 

But in tlie morning I lay in a half-dreamy, half- 
exhausted state of heat, from which I had not will enough 
for long to rouse myself. This grew into a dull, lan- 
guorous lethargy, not unsweet, and in my very bones, 
making me altogether indifferent to everything save a sort 
of aching hunger, which at last drove me out of bed to the 
ta1)le, for the half-pound of dates and the loaf I had bought 
last afternoon. I got them' went back into bed again, 
and, I suppose, ate them. When I awoke it was evening, 
tlie gas-lamp lighting up a part of the far end of the room. 
1 felt flushed, with the hunger still in me, and became 
aware of many troublous crumbs in the sheets, and some 
date-stones, but of neither bread nor dates. In a little I 
got up, and washed and dressed slowly and listlessly, with 
the dull hunger ever in me. Now I would go out, I 
thought. I wejit to the door, opened it, and heard a voice 
say, — 

“ Well, I can’t help it; you must go! ” It was Mrs. 
Smith’s voice, harder and dryer than usual. 

Another answered some soft, pleading words. I leaned 


95 


A Child of the Age. 

against tlie door-post, rather exhausted, scarcely knowing 
why I stayed there. 

A pause. Then, — • 

“ You know it 's the second week owing,” pursued Mrs. 
Smith; “I can’t do it any more; and what’s more, I 
won’t! so there! . . . You must give me something, or 
you must go, that’s all.” 

“I’ve only got a shilling,” said the other voice; “I 
gave it you. Won’t you wait till the end of the week, 
hlrs. Smith? I shall have my wages then?” 

“You said that last week. No, not I. Tick’s not 
nat’ral to me, I say. I ’m a lone widdy woman, I am, but 
I pays my way, and why don’t every one, I want to know ? 
AVhy didn’t you pay me last week, then? ” '• 

“ I was ill. I had to pay for the medicine. ” 

“ Drat the medicine! You should n’t be ill. . . . Come 
now, what are you going to do? Look sharp. Don’t go 
and he blubbering, now. It ’s no go with me, young 
woman — that ! ” 

Another pause. 

“ I ’ve never blubbered to you, Mrs. Smith. I asked you 
to wait a bit, that ’s all. I ’m down on my luck, that ’s 
what I am. A lady took a piece of work I did out of 
hours, a week ago; but she won’t pay for it till the end 
of the month, she says.” 

“Oh, my eye! that’s likely, ain’t it, now? It’s all 
fudge — that’s what it is! Now, look here. You pay me 
to-night, or you go! So there, plain and straight! I ’ve 
got to live like the rest of you, I suppose? Will you give 
it me now? What ’s more, let me tell you, I ’m reg’lar 
hard up meeself. . . . You ’ve given me a shilling already. 
Now, come; give us the rest, and I ’ll let you go tick for 
the other week, till Saturday.” 

Another pause. 

“You know you can get it, if you like, — you know 


96 


A Child of the Age. 

you can.” Mrs. Smith’s voice, too, was soft now, but 
hoarsely. 

“ I can’t! How can 1 1 Or else I would give it you.” 

“ Oh, you can — if you like.” 

“ How can 1 ? ” 

“Oh, come! You know well enough! . . . You ain’t 
so bad looking as all that! ” 

I put my hands behind me. My breath went from me; 
niy fingers scraped lightly on the wood and paper ; I was 
trembling all over. I did not know whether to cry out, 
or, keeping silence, to see what would be the end. 

I waited, the blood pulsing through my head, and whir- 
ring in my ears, till I was nigh blinded and deafened. 

It seemed to me that it was half an hour before either 
of them spoke again. 

Then, — 

“ Oh, do wait, — do wait, — ]\Irs. Smith,” pleaded the 
other. “ I really will pay you on Saturday night. I 
will, really. I’ve been ill. I will — ” 

Her voice maddened me. I pulled to my door some- 
how, and threw myself on to the bed, shivering and 
clutching myself, muttering into the pillow: “Oh, there 
cannot be a God in heaven, who is just and good, and will 
let such things be! ” 

At last I stopped. What would she do ? The thought 
stayed me all into listening for a moment. 

Then I began to struggle again, and again stopped and 
listened. It seemed I was so for hours. 

As I listened the fourth or fifth time, I heard Mrs. 
Smith’s voice almost at the door; then there came silence, 
a door closed, I heard slow heavy footsteps, with clamping 
heels, go down the stairs. My door was ajar. I got up, 
and closed, and carefully latched it. “ What would she 
do?” 

“ What is the girl to me ? ” I thought. “ There are 


97 


A Child of the Age. 

liimdreds like — what she will be, in this city. And one 
more, ‘What is one among so many? ’ All soulless things, 
too — like me! And useless things, too, who will try to 
do no more than live in the sun, breed maggots, and perish. 
Whereas I — What will she do? ” 

I came to my bed, and lay, face downwards, on it. 

"... That three shillings perhaps means life,” I 
thought again, — “ who knows if I can get any work? and 
how to live in the meantime ? And I ’m so frightfully 
weak. . . . Means life, means hope, and all my dreams! 
]\leans everything! That is its meaning. And, if I give it 
up. . . . No, I won’t give it up! I won’t give up my life! 
It is the only thing here; the rest is but hope and fancy.” 

I heard a board creak. 

Some one went down the stairs quietly, but quickly. 
...Who was it? Along the passage. The door closed. It 
was just beneath my head. I seemed to see it, and her. 
I got on to my knees on the bed, pulled up the piece of 
linen that hung half across the window, and looked out. 
She was hurrying across the road, with her head bent 
down, and her hands hanging beside her. 

“ Let her go! ” I thought. “ What is she to me? Let 
her go, — let her go. Why, see, if I had gone out in the 
morning, as I had intended, I might very well never have 
known anything about it. I will not do it. Why, 
now — ” I stopped. 

“ You coward! ” I cried, — “ you miserable coward! ” 

I covered my face with my hands, pressing my elbows 
against my body, and tightening every muscle in my body. 
At last I moaned, — 

“If I only thought there was a God — who saw us both! 
A good God — who would not leave us die — despairing — 
I would give it her! But — as it is — I — I — 

“Coward!” I cried, almost choking, — “coward! . . . 
You cannot let her go!” 


7 


98 


A Child of the Age. 

I got up on to the carpeted plank, dragged open the 
door, and went quickly down the steps. At the foot, with 
my hand on the latch, I cried out, “ Mrs. Smith, Mrs. 
Smith! ” And, when she came from the room on the left, 
just by me, put the three shillings into her hand, — the 
florin and one shillling, — and said, — 

“ There is the money for her.” 

I had the door open as her fingers closed. She was 
staring at me stupidly enough ; but I saw that she under- 
stood what I meant. Then T stepped out quickly, ran 
across the road, and stopped for a moment, looking ahead, to 
see if I could see her. ... If she escaped me, after all! 

Three great gas-jets flared some fifty yards down, on the 
opposite side, in front of a fish-shop.* I saw her pass by 
it, casting an irresolute shadow, her head bent down as 
before, her hands evidently holding one another in front. 
A few people were moving to and fro. 

I walked quickly along the pavement, till I came oppo- 
site her. 

She hesitated for a moment at the corner of a street. I 
crossed over, just behind her. As she made her first step 
forward ; I touched her arm, and said, — 

“ Stop. ” 

She started, turned round sharply, and seemed to recog- 
nize me. For a moment we stood facing one another. 

“You must not go,” I said; “I have persuaded Mrs. 
Smith. She will let you — she will wait till the end of 
the week.” 

She answered nothing. Then I turned from her, and 
walked away. 

I had gone some ten yards, when I heard her running 
after me. She laid her hand for a moment on my arm, 
and said, panting, — 

“ You are very kind, sir, — very kind. You ’re very 
good — ” 


A Child of the Age, 99 

“T am iieitlier kind, nor good; I have done nothing,” I 
said. 

“You have paid Mrs. Smith for me,” she said; “I 
know you have. She would not wait else. But I will 
pay you back, sir, for sure, on Saturday.” 

“ You need not trouble about it ” (looking at her face, I 
added, smiling), — “ child.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I am very grateful to you,” she said. 

I could not bear to listen to her any more. 

“It is nothing,” I said; “ I am very glad to have been 
of any use to you. Good-night,” and left her. 

ISTear the end of the street I passed a man who stopped 
and stared at me till I noticed it, and stopped also, won- 
dering what was the matter. I had no hat on, — that was 
it. I proceeded a little, then, almost as if recollecting 
something, turned back, and came home. 

I found my hat up in my room, put it on, and went out 
again. I felt as if I must go, as if I was going, some- 
where. 

Wandered out towards the Park, and then, up-skirting 
it, on to Primrose Hill, up which I climbed slowly; it 
seemed to me that I would not much care whether I lived 
or died. I would seek for no work. Ho, not I! It was 
nothing to me what happened, or to any one else, or to 
God. I was glad the girl had not been driven to prostitute 
herself in these hellish London streets. When the barrier 
of the first time you do a thing is broken through, the 
second time is easier, and the third easier still. I am 
only sorry that this miserable carcass of mine should have 
so conquered me as to give the tyranny of its thoughts to 
my soul. These last few days have unmade me. 

I stood by a bench, not far from the top, and turned, 
and looked out over the darkness from which came the cool 
breeze fanning my feverish face. All at once I cried out 
passionately, — 


100 


A Child of the Age. 

“ I will know; I will know! ” 

Then my head fell down on to my breast, and I said, — 

“Oh, fool, fool! Dost thou think, then, that thou art 
the first, and wilt be the last, to cry that cry ? They have 
not known, they will never know! Ay, they are all wise, 
and they none of them find out anything! They beat the 
air with heavy flails, proving each other fools, and us 
slaves and beasts, and then they also die, and rot, and are 
eaten. Behold, I, here, a starving beggar-boy, know all that 
tliey know, — and that is, — Nothing! Ay, you foolish ' 
Wisdoms, that spend your days in spinning clothes of air 
with which to clothe the long procession of Humanity, 
behold, I, here, a starving beggar-boy, laugh at you, and 
say to you what you know: ‘ Why, you go naked, — ■ 
naked, as when you came from your mother’s womb! ’ 
Oh, oh, oh! we are all fools together. And there ’s a con- 
solation ill that; but not much, if you happen to be starv- 
ing. Starving? I, starving, I cried, fiercely, “with a 
better head on my shoulders than all these damned. . . . 
Come, come, we mustn’t boast — even now!” 

Laughing a sad, short laugh, I stepped out, and down, 
and began to descend. 

Half way, or so, down, some impulse made me stop and 
look up; and I saw what I took fora small woman, coming 
down also, just above the seat where I had been standing. 
Seeing her, I laughed again. The poor girl (for, of course, 
it was my girl, following me)! She thought me, me! a 
good, kind, heaven-sent saviour, perhaps? 

1 burst . out into a keen, short langli, and went on, — 
went on in home, with the wings of a shadowy bird-thing, 
or moth-thing, fluttering in my inner ear. Up these weary 
old stairs, with an up-pulling arm. The landing at last. 
My door open. My room. 

I took the match-box off its mantelpiece corner, found . 
the candle, struck a light, lit it, and looked. Then I saw 
a large envelope lying on the table, and started. . 


A Child of the Age. 


101 


I looked at the candle-light one long half-vacant look, 
and turned and went to the table, and took up the letter 
and slowly opened it, and read:— ^ 

Dear Sir, — Our reader thinks very well of your Poems; but 
as there is little sale in poetry now-a-days, he does not, on that 
account, think the work would command a remunerative sale. 
The following is an extract from the report which we have re- 
ceived on the MS. : “ There is evidence of power in his book 
which, with due care and cultivation, may ripen into ability to 
achieve real and lasting poetic work.” 

If it were not for the poor attention poetry attracts in these 
days, we would gladly have made you an offer for a little work 
which contains so much beauty and melody. 

Yours faithfully, 

Parker, Tnnes, & Co. 

We are sending the MS. to you per book-post. 

I put it down with a short laugh, and, smiling, shrugged 
my shoulders. 

“Very well. There is nothing left for me now, T sup- 
pose, but to write my will after Chatterton, and invest 
ill — arsenic and water, was it? But I forget; I have no 
money! I must go out into the streets, even at this hour, 
then, and beg a few pence, to be able to kill myself, since 
in London, too, one can’t die for nothing! There is the 
river, — my old river at Glastonbury. If I could roll over 
and over in the long green weeds, why, it wouldn’t matter 
much whether I was able to come back to the brown earth 
again, would it? And to look up through the dusky 
jewelled lightshafts of the currents! Ha, there are flocks 
down there! I read about it in a story book once, and a 
man went down in a sack to find them. But he was 
drownded. No, drowned. Drownded is bad grammar; 
but what ’s the odds, I say ? These idiotic wordmongers 
here talk about nothing but grammar. . . . ‘ For a good 
knowledge of the classics (especially of Cicero) is the foun- 


104 


A Child of the Age. 

“ You have been insensible for on two days,” she said. 

I stared at her round shadowed eyes. 8he nodded her 
head, and, I saw, smiled at me. 

“ Insensible? . . . Why I have never fainted in my life.” 
I saw an open letter on the table-cloth, in that dusky 
light. 

I let my head sink on to the pillow, with a sigh, and 
shut my eyes. Memory had flowed back on to me. 

“ I have brought you some grapes,” she said. “ I 
thought you might like them.” 

I raised my head again, and opened my eyes in the 
room, now full of light. I had not noticed that she had 
lit the gas. 

“ You are kind ; but — ” 

“ You will not take them? ” 

“No, thank you.” 

“ Oh, very well ! I shall throw them out of the window, 
then ! — Why should n’t you take a present from me ? . . . I 
have n’t paid you back the four shillings I owed you, yet; 
hut T can — now. ” 

She took out a purse, unhasped it, opened the leaves, 
put in two of her fingers, and then, with a quick lift-up of 
her head, and a bright smile, came towards me, holding 
two florins in her extended palm. 

“ I only lent you three,” I said. 

“And I have got no change! Think of that! Only 
gold and silver. Is n’t it ri-diculous? Will you eat some 
of the grapes ? . . . Please ! ” 

A pause. 

“ It was kind of you to bring me them,” I said, “ and I 
am — afraid I must have been giving you a great deal of 
trouble . . . Miss — ” 

“ Oh, no! None. You will eat them, then? ” 

I was silent. 

“Oh, Miss — ” 


105 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Do you want to know my name 1 ” she asked, with a 
drop in her voice. 

“ Only if you care to tell me,” I answered, a little sorry 
for my first attempt at some sort of formality or other. 

“ ’Owlet is my name; I ’m from Rutland. Rosy ’s my 
Christian name. — But I hope you won’t call me Miss 
’Owlet.” 

“ Why do you hope not ? ” 

“ Oh, Howlet is such a horrid name ! ” 

I could not help laughing. Then she laughed. 

“ But what shall I call you ? ” I asked. 

“ You called me ^child ’ once. 1 ’m not a child. I ’m 
seventeen.” 

I smiled at her. She at once caught up the bag of 
grapes, undid the mouth, and offered it to me. 

“ Then I beg your pardon,” 1 said. 

She pouted. 

“ But you have not taken any ! ” 

And our eyes met, and the bag was once more offered, 
and I dipped two fingers into it, and lifted a b’g bunch 
half out (she looking at me all the time, and I at the bag- 
mouth), and stretched out my other hand to break off a 
portion of the bunch, and had broken off a portion, and 
was about to drop the remains of the original bunch into 
the bag again, when she drew back her arm quickly, and 
said, — 

“ That ’s not fair! ” 

Then she took out another bunch, squashed up the bag 
in her hands, threw it on to the floor, and came to me, 
holding it up with two fingers in the air. Our eyes met 
again, and I stretched up my hand and took it. She 
smiled at me. A small, thin, black kitten ran out, and 
began chasing the paper-bag. 

She turned, saw it, and cried out, — 

“ Minnie, Minnie! — Oh, you silly thing! Let it alone, 
can’t you ? ” 


106 


A Child of the Age. 


She turned to me again, — 

“ That ’s my cat Minnie. Is n’t she a beauty ? ” 

“Well . . . yes,” I said. 

“ Why, I should think so! Now I must go. I ought n’t 
to have let you talk so much; it ’s not good for you. I 
hope you ’re feeling better? Here, Minnie, Minnie, 
Minnie, Min, Min! Oh, she’s after that piece of paper. 
Silly thing! ...” (Turning to me again.) I ’ll let her 
stop with you . . . if you like.” 

“ Thank you,” I said; “ that ’s kind o^ you. I should 
like.” 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

“ Good-bye,” I answered to her slowly going; “ and thank 
you for all your goodness to me, Miss ” (she stopped) 
“ Kosebud.” 

“ I shall see you soon again, ” she said ; and, at the 
door, “ If you would n’t mind going into my room in a 
little — That ’s this one, here ” (opening the door and 
pointing to the right), “ we ’d get your bed done very 
quickly, and you could come back again. I don’t think 
you ought to dress and go out yet.” 

“ Very well, ” I said. “ Thank you. I will. ” 

She went out; but looking in again, — 

“Put on your coat, or something,” she said, “for fear 
you catch cold; ” and withdrew her head, and the door 
closed, and she was gone. 

I sat up in bed, and threw out my arms. 

“ Oh, you Rosebud! ” I said, laughing, “ you Rosebud! ” 

We had a short conversation together that evening, as I 
ate my tea in bed, and then we said “Good-night,” and 
she left me. And I set about thinking what I had best 
do now. The failure of my attempt to earn my livelihood 
by my pen was a heavy blow to me, and the heavier, that 
it was unexpected. — But I gave up further consideration 


107 


A Child of the Age. 

of the matter for the present. I must have some means 
of support, and immediately. And what was the good of 
tliinkiiig of poetry, after what Parker, Innes, and Co. had 
said about it? 

All at once the idea of becoming a school-master flashed 
upon me. Why not ? I was sure I was quite as capable of 
teaching as poor Currie, — the under-master at Whittaker’s. 
— Or a private secretaryship? — I let my thoughts go, and 
had planned out my life as under-master, or private secre- 
tary, or tutor, before I fell into a sweet dreamless sleep. 

The next day, in the morning, although I was, I found, 
uncommonly weak, I managed to get into the Edgware 
Road, as far as a stationer’s, where I inquired in a general 
sort of a way about such things as under-masterships and 
tutorships, of tlie genteel middle-aged party who was in 
the sliop. She took a great interest in me, I considered, 
for a complete stranger; but could not help me in the least. 

In the afternoon I made three more attempts at sta- 
tioners’, and at the last one was so far successful that I 
learned the name and address of the people whom, it 
seemed, I wanted. 

1 set off for Grenvil Street at once (a weary walk of toil 
to weak me), and interviewed a respectful clerk a good 
deal better dressed, and, doubtless, fed, than myself. He 
thought he might possibly get me an ushership in some 
small school pretty soon; hut I must observe that it was 
not the time for such (that is to say, instant) engagements 
now, half way through the term. I told him the sooner 
the better, for I was in straits. He had an equally dis- 
encouraging account to give of tutorships and secretary- 
ships. All these things required time. I said that speed 
was the one necessity. And on this understanding we 
parted: I, I cannot say how forlorn, — nay, once or twice 
on my walk home, even wearier and more toilsome, near 
to tears. Indeed, I felt more like drowning myself than 
making any further fight for existence. 


108 


A Child of the Age. 

Wl\en I reached Maitland Street, I scarcely knew what 
I had said or done down at the agent’s. Everything was 
a muddle and a jumble, from beginning to end. I cast 
myself down on my bed, and the long-suppressed tears 
came. Oh, why had I not died in that strange, sweet, 
terrible dream after the reading of the letter? I lay sigh- 
ing to myself till I dozed. 

From this half-sleep of despondency the Eosehud roused 
me in the early evening, and took me out for a short walk. 
I don’t know what we talked about. Everything was 
still a muddle and a jumble, from beginning to end. I 
was glad to get back, and creep into bed, and sleep. 

I was better in the morning: inclined, it seemed, to 
feel cheerful, and began, as I lay with closed eyes, think- 
ing, to put the events of yesterday into something like 
connection and tout ensemble / but with no great success. 
The one comforting thought seemed to be that the clerk 
had said he would send me up anything that came. Surely 
something must come! I could not believe I was destined 
to die here like a rat in a hole. — I played upon my in- 
clination to be cheerful, till it had brought me to cheerful- 
ness; and, getting up briskly, perceived a letter on the 
chair by my bedside. The agent, of course! 

“ Ha! ” I said; “the tide ’s on the turn! . . . What ’s 
in here ? ” I hesitated. The sun was shining in through 
the window upon the envelope. 

I ripped it open, took out the letter, and scanned it. 

Dear Sir, — Please call early to-morrow on Alexander Brooke, 
Esq., 5 Dunraven Place, Piccadilly, W., who wishes to engage at 
once a secretary to go abroad with him. The engagement would 
be at least for a year, if not more. 

Terms between £l00 and £l50 per annum. 

Please inform us of the result of your interview. — 

And oblige. Yours faithfully, 

Linklater Pembridge and Blenkinsop. 


109 


A Child of the Age. 

I threw tlie letter on to the table, with new life in me, 
and began to wash, whistling to myself. As I was folding 
on my necktie, I noticed how dirty my collar was, and 
tlien my shirt, and more particularly the cuffs. I put on a 
clean — the last — collar in the bag. And that set me off 
tlunking for a moment about my clothes. “ Well, well! ” 
I said, “ I shall have to tell the man the truth, I suppose: 
and why not? ” For I did not doubt but that he would 
have me. 

Ivosy was, of course, off to her work these tliree hours. 
This, and what she would think about the secretaryship, 
came to me as I passed her door and went down the dark 
stuffy, old, wooden staircase. What would the Rosebud 
tliiiik? “Well, well!” I said as before, “it’ll be time 
enough to think about what she thinks when I ’ve got it.” 
And yet did not doubt for one moment but that I should 
get it. 

I knew my way to Piccadilly. It was a crisp, clear 
morning; the stir of the breezy air and of the life brighter 
than usual, elated me a little. I went along down the 
Edgware Road, eating my brown bread and dates with some 
cheerfulness. Then I had a refreshing glass of milk. 
And, by the time I was half-way across the Park, by the 
path that leads from the Marble Arch up to the Gates 
at Hyde Park Corner, I seemed to have regained sonn^- 
thing of my former self, — something of my Glastonbury 
character of will and self-reliance. The last three weeks 
seemed a dream; almost a bad dream, — a nightmare, for a 
little; then only a dream, save for something of the Rose- 
bud that seemed to reach out half-weakly into the present 
light. I asked the policeman at the Gates where Dunraven 
Place was, and he directed me. Then I arrived at No. 5, 
and was shown into a beautifully furnished room. 

Waiting, I began to examine a book-shelf that was full 
of beautifully bound books that harmonized with the room. 


no 


A Child of the Age. 

They made me think liow I should like to be rich and 
have all the hooks I wanted. I had my eye particularly 
on a large “ Gervinus’ Shakespeare,” in half-calf, and my 
fingers began to feel as if they ought to take it down, and 
run away with it to a convenient arm-chair, and begin 
upon it at once. As 1 stood so, I heard a step behind me, 
and turned. 

“ You are looking at my books, I see,” he said. 

“Yes sir,” I answered. “It was a Gervinus^ Shake- 
speare. I hope — ” 

“ Oh, not in the least! Please sit down.” 

He motioned me into a large red leather chair on one 
side of the fireplace. 

“ You come from Messrs. . . . The name is rather con- 
fusing,” he said. “ . . , I want a secretary to help me with 
— to make himself generally useful, as I may direct. An- 
other young gentleman has been here this morning, already: 
I mean from Messrs. ...” He smiled. — “He objected 
to going out to Africa. Do you ? ” 

“ No.” 

“You see — shortly — I want some one to help me to 
get together my things, write letters, and so on. You 
understand me % ” 

“I think so.” 

“ The young friend who was going with me has sud- 
denly been taken ill, and, as it is important that I should 
he out of England in under a month. — You follow me % ” 

“ I think so.” 

“Good. Now tell me. Can you shoot? No. Eide? 
No. Um! You are strongly made. Where were you at 
school ? ” 

“At Glastonbury.” 

“ Ah, so was I! With Craven, I suppose? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Did you go in for sports — much ? ” 


A Child of the Age. Ill 

“ I was in the first foot-ball fifteen, and rowed in, my 
house-boat. ” 

“ Schoolhouse ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ So did I. It was head of the river in my year.” 

“And in mine, too.” 

“ Tell me something about yourself ? ” 

I paused for a moment. Then I said, — 

“ I have been at Glastonbury five years. My father, 
who is dead, had placed all his fortune in the Southern 
Bank. My guardian called me up to London about three 
weeks ago, to intorrn me of this. I determined then to 
try to make my livelihood by my pen, and . . . failed. 
That is shortly, why I am here.” 

“ Tried to make your livelihood by your pen, and failed? 
Did not your guardian help you ? How did you — 

“ I angered my guardian by refusing to try for a clerk- 
ship. I thought that I had something here — (lifting my 
finger.) 

“ ‘ Quelque chose la ’ — Yes. Well.” 

“ I wrote two poems, which I sent to a publisher, 
hoping — ” 

“ Why, all, or nearly all, poetry has to be paid for now- 
a*days, my poor boy. — Of course they sent it back again ? ” 
“ They did.” 

“ Well ? And may 1 ask how you lived in the interim? 
You had funds? ” 

“ I sold my great coat. ” 

“Excuse me. I am not asking from mere curiosity. 

. . . Would you care to tell me more ? I will ” (looking 
for a moment in my eyes), “if you will, allow me, write 
to Dr. Craven about you. Not that I doubt what you say; 
but you must see. . . . You understand ? ” 

“Perfectly. You have no guarantee that I am not a 
rogue. ” 


112 


A Child of the Age. 


“Aha! I think you are wrong there! However” (sud- 
denly), “ how much did you get for your coat? ” 

“ Fifteen shillings.” 

“ And you have lived on that for nearly three weeks ? ” 

“ Just three weeks.” 

“ Impossible! You are joking! ” 

“ No, sir, since I did. My room only cost me four 
shillings a week, and 1 — ” 

“ Then you must have lived on a shilling a week? ” 

“ No. I have not paid my rent for this third week 
yet.” 

“ And how are you going to ? ” 

“ I cannot say. Perhaps, I may get an ushership in some 
school, within the next few days. I should anticipate my 
pay.” 

He stood up ; we looked for some little in one another’s 
eyes. Then he stretched out his arm, and let his hand 
fall on my shoulder. 

“ You are a brave fellow,” he said, “ and I believe you 
are a true one. I believe what you have told me. There, 
there, now ” (For my eyes were suddenly full of tears) — 
“There, there, there, there, there! It’s all right now.” 
And he turned away and let his arm drop. 

Then, — 

“ Stop, ” said he. “ Did you know Blake, at Gaston- 
bury ? ” 

“ He left just before I came; but I met him once. He 
came to examine a school at Blackheath, where I was. ” 

“ Ah, I am sorry ! He was a dear, dear friend of mine, 
— an old college chum; but I had known him before 
then. He was a Wykehamist.” 

“ Yes; so I remember.” 

“ It would have been enough to me that he had thought 
well of any one. He would have liked you, I am sure.” 

He smiled, and added, — 


113 


i A Child of the Age. 

! “You see that I have let slip how well I think of you, 
and what you have said to me.” 

“ Thank you, sir. Some day, perhaps, I may be able to 
: show you that I deserved your belief in me. — Mr. Blake 
was kind to me when he came to my old school. He was 
i pleased, I think, with some verses I had to recite, and 
I so. ...” He had snapped his fingers impatiently, and 
i made a sharp noise with his lips. 

I stopped speaking. He cried out with a smiling 
mouth, — 

“ You are not the boy who recited Longfellow^s ‘Psalm 
of Life ? ' ” 

“ I am,” I said. 

“ Immediately after that visit he came and stopped with 
I me here in London for a few days.” 

! His face grew sadder. He went on slowly, — 

“ It was the last time I saw him. You know of his ter- 
rible death, not so long after 1 All that he said in those 
few days has been treasured up by me, and lives forever 
in my memory. The first night he came, after dinner, as 
we were sitting here by this very fire, over our cigars and 
wine, he told me about the little boy he had seen that 
I afternoon! ” 

He caught himself up. 

“ Well, and how old are you now ? ” 

I “Eigliteen.” 

“ You strange hoy! Eighteen. — Why, it is ridiculous! 
(I really must read some of those Kejected Addresses of 
yours, some day.) — You are very tall for your age, and 
. look very old for eighteen.” 

; I smiled. 

“ This fortnight has made me older by five years, I 
' think. Years are no test of age, sir.” 

< We talked together for almost an hour — of many things. 
J Then he looked at his watch, and jumped up, saying, — 

8 


114 


A Child of the Age. 

“ You have made me forget that I have a very great deal 
to do this morning, young man.” 

“ I am sorry, sir.” 

“ — But very pleasantly. ” 

“ Then I am glad.” 

I smiled, and so did he. He touched me on the 
shoulder. 

As I was going, he spoke of Mr. Blake again — how that 
he was a truly great and good man, one who was without 
the cant of the two words, a “ Christian gentleman. ” 

A pause. Then I, — 

“ I think I ought to tell you something, sir, that I have 
not told you yet.” 

“ Aha 1 ” he said. 

“ I am not a Christian, and ... I do not say that I do 
not believe in a God, hut I do not think that I believe in 
one.” 

He put his hand on my shoulder again, and smiled. 

“ It will pass, — it will pass! AVe most of us go in a 
circle, nowadays; most of us, — that is, who are worth 
anything. Christian, or perhaps nothing at all, till seven- 
teen, atheist till twenty, materialist till twenty-one (we 
soon get tired of that!): deist till thirty (though some of 
the wilder sort go in for a course of that nonsense called 
Pantheism), and then, either the old original Christianity 
again on to the end, or some slight modification of it. 
Take my word for it, boy, there is no religion worth call- 
ing a religion that does not take Christ and Christ’s teach- 
ing as its original: And how much better is it to lift up 
your eyes from considering the shadow on the ground, to 
consider the One that casts the shadow, even Christ Jesus, 
who is as the standing figure that watches this our on- 
rolling earth, yearning for it as a mother for her wandering 
child, waiting for the hour when He shall take it to His 
bosom and forever ? ” Pie paused. I kept silence. 


115 


A Child of the Age. 

I We shook hands. I turned to go. 

He called to me. I turned again. 

“ I shall not write to Craven.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

We again shook hands, and I had my hand on the door, 
when he said, — 

“Stay a moment. You are my secretary — for a year. 
It is so agreed?” 

“Yes, sir; as far as I am concerned.” 

“ Then allow me to give you your first quarter in 
advance. It is always — I always manage it in that way. 
You may be in want of a little ready money. And . . . 
as regards Messrs. — Messrs. X. Y. and Z., you will of 
course allow me to settle that with them myself.” 

I stood irresolute. 

“Come, come!” he said. — “Now, doiiT he foolish, 
Leicester. If you are going to . . .” 
f I stepped to him suddenly, saying, “ Sir, sir, you are 
very good to me. ” 

He took my hand in his and pressed it. 

“ Yes, yes, yes, yes ! that ’s all right now ! — Now you 
E really must run away! You said that you would like to 
come to me to-morrow morning, did nT you? Very well; 
I will tell you about what you will have to do, then. So 
' good-bye, or rather au revou\ or rather (when I think of 
it) both.” 

I was at the door, when he called, — 

“Oh, you dreadful boy, you haven’t taken all your 
belongings away with you! Here is your first quarter on 
the table yet. You are inclined to be careless, I see. 
Look to it. It is an evil, evil vice, — carelessness! ” 

I found that I could scarcely see the folded pieces of 
paper that he had put down on the edge of the table. 

When I had it safely in my hand, I gave one look at 
him, and a bright smile, and went out as quickly as I 


114 


A Child of the Age. 

“ You have made me forget that I have a very great deal 
to do this morning, young man.” 

“ I am sorry, sir.” 

“ — But very pleasantly. ” 

“ Then I am glad. ” 

I smiled, and so did he. He touched me on the 
shoulder. 

As I was going, he spoke of Mr. Blake again — how that 
he was a truly great and good man, one who was without 
the cant of the two words, a “ Christian gentleman. ” 

A pause. Then I, — 

“ I think I ought to tell you something, sir, that I have 
not told you yet.” 

“ Aha ? ” he said. 

“ I am not a Christian, and ... I do not say that I do 
not believe in a God, but I do not think that I believe in 
one.” 

He put his hand on my shoulder again, and smiled. 

“It will pass, — it will pass! We most of us go in a 
circle, nowadays; most of us, — that is, who are worth 
anything. Christian, or perhaps nothing at all, till seven- 
teen, atheist till twenty, materialist till twenty-one (we 
soon get tired of that!): deist till thirty (though some of 
the wilder sort go in for a course of that nonsense called 
Pantheism), and then, either the old original Christianity 
again on to the end, or some slight modification of it. 
Take my word for it, boy, there is no religion worth call- 
ing a religion that does not take Christ and Christ’s teach- 
ing as its original: And how much better is it to lift up 
your eyes from considering the shadow on the ground, to 
consider the One that casts the shadow, even Christ Jesus, 
who is as the standing figure that watches this our on- 
rolling earth, yearning for it as a mother for her wandering 
child, waiting for the hour when He shall take it to His 
bosom and forever 1 ” He paused. I kept silence. 


115 


A Child of the Age. 

We shook hands. I turned to go. 

He called to me. I turned again. 

“ I shall not write to Craven.” 

“ Thank you, sir.” 

We again shook hands, and I had my hand on the door, 
when he said, — 

“ Stay a moment. You are my secretary — for a year. 
It is so agreed?” 

“ Yes, sir; as far as I am concerned.” 

“ Then allow me to give you your first quarter in 
advance. It is always — I always manage it in that way. 
You may he in want of a little ready money. And . . . 
as regards Messrs. — Messrs. X. Y. and Z., you will of 
course allow me to settle that with them myself.” 

I stood irresolute. 

“Come, come!” he said. — “ Xow, don’t he foolish, 
Leicester. If you are going to . . .” 

I stepped to him suddenly, saying, “ Sir, sir, you are 
very good to me. ” 

He took my hand in his and pressed it. 

“ Yes, yes, yes, yes ! that ’s all right now ! — Now you 
really must run away! You said that you would like to 
come to me to-morrow morning, didn’t you? Very well; 
I will tell you about what you will have to do, then. So 
good-bye, or rather au revou\ or rather (when I think of 
it) both.” 

I was at the door, when he called, — 

“Oh, you dreadful boy, you haven’t taken all your 
liclongings away with you! Here is your first quarter on 
the table yet. You are inclined to be careless, I see. 
Look to it. It is an evil, evil vice, — carelessness! ” 

I found that I could scarcely see the folded pieces of 
paper that he had put down on the edge of the table. 

When I had it safely in my hand, I gave one look at 
him, and a bright smile, and went out as quickly as I 


116 A Child of the Age. 

could ; for my eyes were full of tears, and I feared some 
might drop out. 

Hiding up on the outside of an omnibus to Praed Street, 
I felt as I had felt in some of the days at Glastonbury, 
when I had longed to leap and give a shout, and move on- 
wards towards something. And then 1 grew a little sad, if 
it is possible to call joy sad, and be^an to say to myself, — 

“Well, well, pray that there is a God; for you long to 
thank Him for this. And see, it is very sweet to you to 
think that perhaps, — perhaps He has but afflicted you and 
chastened you by this your suffering, so that, in the end. 
He might lead you nearer and nearer to Himself. . . It 
is a sweet thought! ” 

I spent that afternoon happily. First of all I had a 
good dinner at a restaurant, in Oxford Street, and that 
gave me an insight into what a healthy pleasure in food 
meant; and then (the day continuing sunny, and almost 
warm) I went for a long walk in Hyde Park, stopping to 
look at the men and women riding or driving by, and not 
one of whom I, in this bright day’s dawn of a new life, 
could possibly envy. Their wealth might give me the 
chance of leading another life which would not be without 
its charm, nay, its delight; yet how much nol)ler this 
one that I was entering upon now, this one that had work 
to do, work for others, that is, which would require self- 
sacrifice — conquest of self 1 

And after that I came up honie, buying on the way fruit 
and cakes and other things, for a tea I had in my mind, 
with Rosebud, in my room. Then I set about making it 
all ready, so that, by the time she came in, half-past seven, 
the room, lit up with gas and fire and well laid-table, was 
most cheerful. 

Rut the tea was not; for Rosy took my good news most 
gravely, and did not laugh once the whole time. 


117 


A Child of the Age. 

After tea we went out for a walk together, and, when we 
had gone a little way, I said, smiling, that I intended to 
get her a bonnet to wear as a memory of me. But she 
would not see anything to laugh at in that, and refused the 
bonnet with dignity. Then I tried a coat, but she sud- 
denly exclaimed, — 

“ And do you think I would keep it all rags and tatters 1 ” 
Dismissing the idea. 

I tried a locket as a last resource. 

After some persuading, she at last agreed. "We went 
into a jeweller’s (the very jeweller’s under whose window 
I had counted my money on the first night I was in Lon- 
don) in the Edgware Road together, and she chose a small, 
round, silver locket, and relented a little. 

“No,” she said, as we were walking slowly away, “for 
the bonnet and the jacket would wear out, and I couldn’t 
very well keep them then — eh? And they wouldn’t 
look nice, all in rags and tatters, would they? But I 
shall always be able to keep the locket, you know: and 
when I look at it I shall think of you and give a sigh; for 
you ’ve been very nice to me.” 

“Ah,” I said, “ who ’s talking nonsense, now?” And 
proceeded to remonstrate that if anybody had been “ nice ” 
to anybody it was she to me. To which she answered that 
she liked to hear me talk so, and for a moment I felt rather 
foolish, and proposed that we should go up to the top of 
Primrose Hill, and she agreeing, we set off. 

I began to question her a little about herself, and she 
answered readily, — nay, entered upon a regular discourse, 
to which I played the accompaniment with some pleasure 
of amusement and otherwise, till we were half way up 
Primrose Hill; when I all at once remembered a certain 
bench not far from the top, by which I had on a certain 
night stood and looked out over the darkness from which 
came the cool breeze fanning my feverish cheek. Could it 


118 


A Child of the Age. 

have indeed been me, — this living, moving, thinking me, 
here, who lived and moved and thought that certain night 
as memory silently told me that I had? Poor me! 

I led her a little round and then up to it. And \ve sat 
down upon it, together, and talked softly. 

What thousands and thousands of stars were in the sky ! 
And what millions and millions of people had looked up 
at the thousands and thousands of stars, and yet would 
look up, and when would it all ever come to an end ? 

“Rosy,” I said again, “does it never seem to you as if 
you were here alone in the world, — quite alone? I mean, 
as if nobody else belonged to you, somehow; and they are 
all here, and they live and they die, and you can’t tell 
where they go to: and you can’t tell where you will go to, 
but you don’t tliink you really ever will die, although you 
know you will; but when you do die, that you will go to 
somewhere else, where you will be quite alone again, and 
nobody else will belong to you, somehow, and they will be 
all there, and they will all live there, and then die, and 
you can’t tell where tliey go to, and then jmu will die. . . . 
And it goes on like that forever! — Did you never think 
of it in that way ? ” 

“ I never thought about it at all,” she said; “ but I like 
to hear you talk like that. . . . Go on.” 

I started, and laughed, and then said, — 

“ iSTow I ’ll tell you a little piece of poetry, — a merry 
little piece, — and then we must be going home; for it ’s 
getting late.” 

She composed herself to listen.- 

“ It ’s in Greek,” I said; “ but you ’ll be able to under- 
stand it. I ’ll tell you about it first. It ’s called a ‘Swal- 
low Song.’ The little boys sang it in Greece when the 
swallows came back after the winter. They used to go 
round to all the houses and sing it, just like boys sing 
carols at Christmas. This is it: — 


119 


A Child of the Age. 

“ " She comes, she comes, the swallow, 
bringing beautiful hours, 
beautiful seasons, 
white ou the bell}'-, 
black 011 the bacL 

Do thou roll forth a fruit-cake 
out of the rich house, 
and a beaker of wine 
and a basket of cheeses ; 
and wheat-bread the swallow 
and the pulse porridge 
does not reject. Say, shall we go away, or something receive ? 

If thou givest — well ! But if not, we won’t let you off ! 

Shall we bear off the door, or else the lintel? 

Or else the wife that is seated within ? 

She s a small body, easily shall we carry her off ! 

But if you give us something, 
something great may you get. 

Open, open the door to the swallow, 
we are not old men, but childerkius here.’ ” 

Then I went on to recite to her the Greek, and she 
swayed her body a little in sympathy with the rhythm of 
the words, so that I, who was pleased with it all, gradu- 
ally grew into the humor in which I had been before, 
when I exclaimed, — 

“ Oh, you Rosebud! ” till, at the words ^ rav yvvatKa rav 
€(T 0 ) KaOrj/xivav, I gave one look at her, sitting there, child- 
like and fairy-like and dear, and could have caught her up 
in my arms, and then ... I did n’t know what I should 
have done then. 

I sat still, looking out into the night. 

After a little, “1 wonder,” said her quiet voice, — “I 
wonder if you would teach me that? ... I think I could 
soon learn it.” 

“You need not wonder any more,” I said slowly, still 
looking out into the night. “ I will teach it you.” 

And so we began, I to repeat the translated words, she 


120 


A Child of the Age. 

to say them after me, I still looking out into the night, 
she, as I knew, looking up at my face. She had an excel- 
lent memory. She had soon learned the piece, and repeated 
it alone, faultlessly. 

“ You have a good memory,” I said. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I always was quick at learning things 
— when I liked them. I like that.” 

A pause. Then , — 

“ Now we must be going,” I said, rising, “ it is getting 
late.” 

We went slowly down the dark hill-side together. 
Then something seemed to grow with and about us, and I 
began to feel somehow as if I were leaving a thing that had 
closely to do with me in some low, dim, dull plain, 
whereas, I was going away to mount up into a rich warm 
country of gentle sunshine. And then in half-forgetfulness 
of this, I would have taken her hand with mine, and we, 
two children, would have wandered on so over the dim 
fields together, for ever and ever, till we softly faded away. 
And yet I felt that I was moving in a dim dreaminess, and 
she in one parallel to it, and that she would not (perhaps 
could not) meet. Then we turned up one of the roads at 
the back of St. John’s Wood, in order to get to Maitland 
Street. I looked at her, walking along beside me. 

“You’re very quiet. Rosy,” I said. 

“ So are you,” she said, looking in front of her. And 
then we went on together with the same quietness; for I 
had no care to say more, nor she either, it seemed. 

As we stopped opposite No. 3, she heaved a sigh. I 
stretched out my hand and opened the door. She said, 
“ Thank you, ” and went in, I following. 

Up the dark stairs we went together, till we reached 
her door, the handle of which she had in one hand as sho 
half turned to me. 

“ Good-night, ” she said. 


121 


A Child of the Age. 

“Good-night,” I said, finding her other out-held hand, 
and holding it half-loosely for a moment. 1 could not see 
her face in that intense blackness. 

She opened her door inwards, and a little light came 
from the turned-down gas — opened it wider. She went 
in slowly, and closed it after her. I unlatched my own 
door, and went into the room. The gas there, too, was 
turned down. I went and turned it up. 

“Heigh, ho! I said, with suppressed weariness. I sat 
down in the chair, and stretched out my legs, and tilted 
the chair hack, and lifted the hands of my stretched arms 
to my head, and thought. All at once I stopped, with 
listening powers like a rock balanced on the edge, breath- 
less, motionless. 

A low knock came at the door. 

“ Come in,” I said, breathless, motionless. 

The latch was lifted, and the door opened a little. 

“ It ’s me,” said Kosy’s low voice. 

Then, the door opening a little, I saw her. “ Kosy,” 
she said , “ may I come in 1 ” 

I started, and sat up straight. 

“Yes,” I said . . . “Yes.” 

She came in, her face flushed, her eyes bright, her hair 
loosed a little round her head, in wavy brown threads. I 
seemed to inhale her fairness like a soft, sweet air. She 
said, — 

“ I thought — that as — as you were going away in the 
morning — oefore I come hack, you know — and as I get 
up early — at seven — so as to be down at my work by 
eight — I thought . . . — that — that perhaps I — that 
perhaps you . . . would n’t mind if I was to — if I . . . ” 
She paused, with an indrawn breath. Then I was with 
her and had taken her hands. 

“ . . . What is it, Kosebud ? ” I said, with a trembling 


in me. 


122 


A Child of the Age. 

All at once two large tears came out of her eyes, and 
trickled down her cheeks. 

Then she looked at me steadfastly, trying to smile and 
not wink her eyelids, whose long lashes had crystal drops on 
them. The trembling passed out of me. 1 thought only 
of her distress. 1 put one arm round her, and so, holding 
her small body, stroked her soft brown hair back softly, 
saying,'— 

“Why, Rosebud, you mus n’t mind like that. I’ll 
come back again some day.” 

“Oh, you were so nice to me,” she said. “But you 
will come back again to see me . . . some day — Eh ? ” 

“ Surely I will. And bring you a bonnet wuth blue 
ribbons and a flower that . . . What is it 1 ” 

“ I don’t want a bonnet! ” 

“ Not a bonnet? ” 

“ ... No ... ” (piteously). “I want you!” 

“Very well then, I’ll bring you me,” I said, “some 
day ; and some grapes, and bon-bons to make me go down 
well.” 

Her arms hung listlessly. She seemed very miserable 
about it. 

I kissed her on the cheek, — kissed a tear that was steal- 
ing clown. Then the next moment felt her breast heave 
and shake against mine, and she sobbed out, — 

“ Oh, I wish — you were n’t going away, — I wish you 
were n’t going away ! ” 

I kissed her again, and at last found voice to scold her 
gently; telling her that this would not do, and that she 
would be all right again soon. Eor we should see one 
another again soon, and have long walks in the evening 
again. 

“And learn more Swallow Songs?” asked she, looking 
up. 

“Yes,” I said, “and all sorts of other things as well.” 


123 


A Child of the Age. 

“ That would he nice, would nT iti ” she said. 

“ Yes. — And climb up to the top of Primrose Hill and 
look at the lights.” 

“ Yes, and go up the River some day, as you said once. 
That would be nice, too, wouldn’t it? ” She had stopped 
crying, at last. 

Then, holding her little upturned face in my hands, I 
kissed her again, first on one cheek, and then on the other. 
And then we said, “good-night.” 

But at the door she suddenly turned back to me, with 
her arms half-raised, and said, piteously, — 

“Kiss me again, — do! ... I do like you to kiss me 
so! ” 

I took her hands, and, smiling a little, went and kissed 
her on the cheek. 

“Kiss me on the lips,” she whispered, half giving 
herself to me. 

1 kissed her on the lips and drew back. 

"... Good . . . night,” she said. 

“ Good-night, Rosy, good-night! ” 

She was gone. 

Then trembling came into me again, and I stretched out 
my arms before me as round something in the air; and 
then threw them up with an unknown word, and turned 
away. 

“ Good-night, Rosebud, good-night.” 


CHAPTER III. 


I. 

T BROUGHT a certain amount of enthusiasm to hear 
^ upon my new life. The idea of working in co-opera- 
tion with “ the friend of Blake " was a powerful incentive 
to perseverance. I wrote in the journal, which I began to 
keep at this time : — 

“ 1 have had a great deal to learn and to do in this swift-flown 
fortnight. And I have found both the learning and the doing very 
pleasant to me. It would seem that my just-past struggle for 
existence partook, all along, greatly of the cul-de-sac ; whereas, 
this new life is like an open road that leads to a great city ; that 
city has to be reached ; certain things have to be done, which 
things constitute a ‘ cause.’ There can be no doubt that a definite 
aim, object, end, is the making of a man.” 

But the next week came a reaction. I began to weary 
of the details of my work, be more weary of the people 
with whom I was thrown; and there was growing in me a 
deaf, unrecognized notion in connection with Mr. Brooke, 
that would have partaken, had I let it, of dis-illusionment. 
Hear the journal of three days later, apropos of a dinner at 
a Mr. Starkie’s, — a friend of JMr. Brooke’s, — where I 
had met some, what 1 called, “ travellers ” : — 

“ ‘ Travellers ’ are an aggravating tribe. They seem to expect 
you to know their books better than they do themselves ; to pre- 
tend that no one else ever went where they went, or, if some one 
else undeniably did go, — then that that some one else went the 
wrong way, came back the wrong way, and made rather a fool 
than otherwise of himself every bit of the way ! People have no 


125 


A Child of the Age. 

business to be active monomaniacs ; passive ones, as much as 
you like ; I see no harm in that. I am a passive monomaniac 
myself.” 

A little later: — 

“ Imps have been at me to-day. The air has been densely 
populated with them. Here is a lugubrious account for you ! I 
be^in from the beginnins;. 

o o o 

‘•Since the morning I had a longing to write one particular 
thing haunting me. In crowded shops, before me as the cab cut 
through the streets, beside me as I sat at my desk ; wherever I 
was, whatever I was doing, I saw the same silent figure, with its 
hand to its brow, standing under a tree in the early evening. I 
was like an inveterate smoker robbed of his pipe and left staring 
at his full tobacco-jar. Once or twice I very nearly went up to 
my room with paper and pencil to fill in my imaginary picture ; 
having resisted and conquered, I was irritable with everything 
about me for my own firmness. How cruel it was that I had no 
time ; how badly organized was the world that so many other 
people had time and wasted it ! 

“ Driving down New Bond Street I saw a young girl, with a 
pince-nez and walking-stick, staring into a jeweller’s window. I 
at once began to revile her as frivolity’s foolish wasp, and must 
have done so aloud, for the coachman opened the trap to inquire 
if I had said anything. ‘ No,’ I said, ‘ drive on ! ’ 

“In the evening (this evening) we had a dinner-party. The 
two men who are going with us on the expedition, Clarkson and 
Starkie, were there, with their wives; also some other ‘men of 
mark ’ with their wives. But the female element was (thank 
God !) in the minority. That did n’t save me, though. I sat 
between a beetle-browed prude who kept making (bad) eyes at 
her husband opposite us (a travelling monomaniac, of course!), 
and a big cavalry officer who had cantered through half a conti- 
nent, and, as soon as he came home, sat down and written a book 
on all its histories, languages, and literatures. The beetle-browed 
prude told me about her husband’s travels ; the cavalry officer 
about his own. (The lady he had taken in to dinner was a 
philanthropist, very distinguished, very loquacious, but unfortu- 
nately deaf. She and the cavalry officer soon gave one another 


126 


A Child of the Age. 

up ; the cavalry officer for me, the female philanthropist for a 
course of lectures to a weak-eyed man on her right, — subject, 
parochial rates, I think.) The officer varied the conversation 
once by remarking that Darwin did not appreciate the spirit of 
Nature, so leading the prude into a disquisition on Eternal Love; 
but, in the end disagreeing, they called me from my thoughts 
under the ceiling to give my opinion ; found I knew nothing about 
the points in question, and so repeated them in their entirety for 
my edification, even to the disagreement. 

“ After dinner, when we joined the ladies, the prude motioned 
me to her side by a smile and a gesture. I heard the officer 
repeating his remark about Darwin to another prude (square- 
browed ; lifeless combed-back hair, slow eyes, and an altogether sug- 
gestiveness of ‘ shoulder arms ’) just behind us. My own particular 
prude seemed for some time (that is, till I grew dreamy and inat- 
tentive) to have eyes, and I should say a good many tongues, 
for me only. Then she carried me off, tripping over her spasmodic 
train, to her dear, dear friend Mrs. Basingstoke (to whom she really 
must introjooce me, — a most cul-tivated and highly de-lightful 
crea-ture, she assured me !) ; and I was presented, as (in a 
whisper) ‘ a most fu-ter-esting young man, with de-cidedly marked 
tastes, my dear Mrs. Basingstoke [What could I have been say- 
ing?] ; and, alas, a rare endowment of young men now-a-days, — 
earnest re-ligious con-victions ! ’ Goats and monkeys ! 

“ But jam satis ! — After they were all gone, I stood frowning 
on the hearthrug. — Mr. Brooke came in from the Hall, having 
seen the last of them off. 

“ ‘ Aha, Leicester,’ he said, ‘and how about those things from 
Taunton’s? I was dressing when you came back. They are 
all right ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well, no, sir. The tubes had to be made on purpose — ’ 

“ ‘ I ordered them a fortnight ago. ’ 

“ ‘ And they came. But one of the people in the shop man- 
aged to crack one — ’ 

“‘And the whole thing will have tx) be done again. Bother! 

. . . Hoity-toity, I ’m very tired ! . . . You look tired, too.’ 

“ ‘ I am.’ ' 

“ ‘ I saw you making yourself very agreeable to Mrs. Napier, 
and afterwards to Mrs. Basingstoke.’ 


127 


A Child of the Age. 

“ I curled my lip. Then, feeling that I should say something 
foolish in a moment if I stayed, and irritated that I should have 
to save myself by running away, said : ‘ I think I will go to bed, 
sir. There is nothing more to be done to-nio-ht ? ' 

“ ‘ Ah-h-h, . . . no. That is, I don’t think so. Hamilton 
and Malmesbury sent up everything ? They are the rudest and 
most unpunctual people in all London; but they have the 
best. . . . ’ 

“ I made a quick noise with my lips, expressive of impatience 
and disgust. I had forgotten altogether about Hamilton and 
Malmesbury. What business on earth had / with running about 
seeing that Hamiltons and Malmesburies sent up things V Why 
not use a servant, or the post ? The post is one of the greatest 
institutions of our country. There was not any need for such 
frantic haste. Whereas, there were creatures, like that girl with 
the pince-nez and walking-stick, who dawdled away their whole 
lives ! And here was /, going out on an expedition into the 
wilds of Africa, to be killed by fever and eaten by jackals and 
vultures, or run through with spears and eaten by negroes! — Oh, 
it was too hard I I really must write to some Croesus ; state my 
cruel case, and ask for £100 for three years, offering to refund it 
out of my first year’s earnings Nay, a better idea would be to 
insert an advertisement in the ‘ Times ’ agony column : ‘ An 
unappreciated genius (male), setat 18, desirous of benefiting 
humanity by devoting himself to himself, would be glad to meet 
with some young woman who would give him the means of pur- 
suing this lofty course of action. Millionnairesses with a hanker- 
ing after (literary) immortality are strongly advised not to let 
this opportunity slip, as a similar one may never arise again. 
Apply for further particulars to B. L., 5 Dunraven Place, Picca- 
dilly, W., who . . .’ And I burst out into a laugh, rather a 
bitter laugh. 

“ ‘ What 's the matter ? ' asked Mr. Brooke. 

“ I shrugged back my shoulders with a half-sigh, half-groan. 
‘I think I am ill,’ I said. 

“He rose from his desk, where he was sitting examining some 
papers, came across to me and, smiling, put his hand onto my 
shoulder in his usual kindly unctuous manner. I could almost 
have struck him. ‘ Come, come, come ! ’ he said. ‘ You must 


128 


A Child of the Age. 

not mind now. — It will soon pass, this malaise. You have lived 
so much in yourself that you find it very hard to live in other 
people? — Ah, well, well! We most of us have that little dilli- 
CLilty to contend with sooner or later.’ 

“ But I, hanging down my head, bit my underlip with all my 
might for a moment. The pain made me master of myself. I 
looked up in his face with my eyes hedged about with tears, but 
ready to listen to what he had to say to me. 

“ He pressed my shoulder with his hand : ‘ Don’t dream so, 
my boy,’ he said, ‘ don’t dream so. You ’re always at it, you 
know ; and it ’s such a bad habit 1 It leads to absorption in one’s 
own world, and that means selfishness. Why, I have known in 
my time at least three dreamers, who ruined all their own happi- 
ness and their family’s as well, simply because they would have 
their dreams. Such are they whom the world calls ‘ geniuses ’ 
and their friends ‘ brutes,’ for no sacrifice is too great for these 
precious empty dreams of theirs, — not excluding the dreamers’ 
lives. It angers me to hear people erecting special codes of moral- 
ity for such men. Because a man is dubbed ‘ genius,’ is he also to 
be dubbed demi-god, and allowed to pick and choose from the laws 
of the land which he will be so good as to obey and which he 
won’t? Give up thinking that you can do anything, and there is 
a chance of your doing something. Get out of yourself and into 
other people; they are, probably, better than you are. — You 
don’t mind me speaking like this to you, now, do you now ? ’ 

“‘Ao.’Isaid; ‘it’s true what you say. 1 live too much in 
myself, and I am impatient of what I think are other people’s 
smallnesses. ... I will try to be more patient.’ 

“ ‘ Very well. Don’t let ’s talk about it any more. One mo- 
ment, though. Am I to halve the dose ? Is it too strong for 
you ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, sir : double it ; but — ’ ^ 

“ ‘ Your stomach can’t stand it yet ? Never mind. I only 
wonder that it has stood so much. Go on taking your medicine 
like a man (I don’t mind your pulling faces now and then, — 
])erhaps it is rather nasty!) and . . . ’ (with a smile) ‘ well, you 
shall have some jam afterwards ! ' 

“ ‘ Will you tell me the sort ? ’ I asked, but in a purposeless 
sort of way, for it seemed as if he expected me to ask for an 
explanation of his ‘ jam afterwards.^ 


129 


A Child of the Age. 

‘“You will be more contented, less self-conscious, a better 
member of society generally, — I mean more ready to put your- 
self out to talk to ‘ fools,’ less eager to find fault with wiser people 
than yourself. In a word, more healthy' 

“ I kept silence ; for I felt that it would be quite useless to 
speak.” 

The next day has : — 

“Mr. Brooke with me to the Riding School. Nothing par- 
ticular.” 

And, after a space, the following remark; — 

“ These riding lessons five times a week are not without their 
pleasure to me. I am pleased at my complete freedom from fear. 
But can I ever be afraid of anything again ? For have I not 
realized how small an atom I am of things living and dead ; how 
valueless, as I am, to things as yet uncreated ? I am a spectator 
of existence in general, and of my own in particular. How can 
a man who believes in nothing but bare existence and the beauty 
of Truth, and feels that he is floating along, weak and not far 
from helpless, have fear'? What are a few more seconds to him ? ” 

t 

Here my enthusiasm for a full Journal seems to have 
given way. The rest is made up of simple notifications of 
the general events of each day. 

This short period of my life is, strangely or not, one of 
those about which I remember least. It may be that I 
was too absorbed in what Mr. Brooke dubbed for me my 
“ dreams ” to notice even what took place to myself. It 
may be. Perhaps that may account for the long filing 
trail of “ society ” dressed people that represents my memory 
of it all, and for a certain lifeless wanness that I seem to 
find in even these conversations between Mr. Brooke and 
myself, although written so shortly after they were spoken. 
But as the days wore on, I, with a little astonishment, 
found that I was again beginning to take an interest in my 
work. At first, as I have said, this astonished me, and I 

9 


130 


A Child of the Age. 

half anticipated that “ it would go off soon.” But when it 
did not, but rather grew, till it seemed to have achieved 
some permanent strength, I was led to look upon my early 
discontent as the momentary humour, and this calmer 
readiness as the actual individuality. Something, too, of 
my old adventurous love was rising in me at the near 
approach of our departure, and this helped me to realiza 
that, past denial, there was much in me that was morbid 
and self-concentrated, and helped me to determine to resist 
these infirmities. I had begun to like Mr. Brooke better, 
and this, although I was far from holding him up to myself 
as “the ideal friend,” as I had done at starting. No one 
could help liking the man’s earnestness, — an earnestness 
that had something of the tenderness-inspiring in it. It 
did not matter that the aim of this earnestness was not 
altogether apparent to you. You saw the effect. The 
effect was beautiful, — earnestness and honesty wielded 
together, — and you “ liked ” it. What matter about the 
cause ? 

It was in a humour of this sort that, some days later, I 
sat with him after dinner in the library, he smoking a 
cigar, I thinking about things. 

We sat in silence. 

At last, with a slight yawn, — 

“ We shall be off,” he said, “ before this time next week. 
Oh-h-h! . . . How delightful it is to think of it! ” 

“ Mr. Clarkson is to meet us at Brindisi, isn’t he? ” I 
said. 

“ Yes. He does not want to go through Paris, and it 
would scarcely do to go through the Continent, and he not 
go with us. I do not think so, at least. . . . He has a per- 
fect monomania about Paris. He caught typhoid fever 
when he was there three years ago, and almost died of it, 
up at the top of an hotel, alone; he declared that ho would 
never put his foot inside the place again. It was a very 


A Child of the Age. 131 

horrible idea , I must confess — deatli , alone, in a strange 
hotel, in a strange city.” 

“ But, if he ’s afraid of fever, surely it is rather a strange 
thing to go to — ” 

“ Yes, yes, it is. But men are made up of such incon- 
sistencies. I, for example, am shudderingly afraid of 
small-pox. Yet I have been through a cholera epidemic, 
nursed diphtheritic cases, known cancer, and what not 
besides.” 

" King Alfred used to pray that God’s will might be 
done in all things, but that he should prefer not to die of 
a loathsome disease. I should perhaps be afraid of such 
things, too, if it was n’t that — ” I paused. 

“ Was n’t what? ” he said. 

“Oh, an idea of mine! I don’t believe that I shall ever 
catch anything again, somehow! ” 

“ Fearlessness is half the battle. ... I too have prayed 
to God that I may not die of a disease that makes others 
fearful of me, and myself loathe myself.” 

“ And I do not see why God should not grant your 
prayer, if — ” I left the rest, “ If He is and can,” unsaid; 
for I had seen his face contract a little. 

“ I beg your pardon,” I said, “ if I have offended you.” 

“ Oh, no, I am foolish to notice it. I should not have, 
but that it recalled to me that the same vile bartering 
thought had, I am ashamed to say, occurred to me, too, as 
it were despite myself, before now. You see 1 am trem- 
bling” (he held up his hand) “like a terrified woman. 
Upon my word, I ought to be ashamed of myself! ” 

He resumed, more slowly, — 

“ I cannot quite account for this hysterical dread of one 
particular disease. My father died of it just before I was 
born, and my mother was nigh losing life, and then rea- 
son, in giving birth to me. Perhaps that is enough to 
excuse my poor nerves. . . . But I ’ve not much belief 


132 


A Child of the Age, 

in these things. Hereditaribility, as Herbert Spencer 
would say, has been done to death, novv-a-days.” 

I remembered a somewhat contrary remark to this of 
his, and smiled a little to myself. 

There was a silence for a few moments. 

At last he lifted up his head, looked across at me, and 
jerked his cigar-end under the grate, saying, — 

“ By-the-by, Leicester, I have something to say to you. 
. . . It ’s about my book.” He paused for a moment; 
then proceeded, — 

“ You know that it is not yet published? — Indeed, it is 
not fit to be published. — It is like Caesar’s Commenta- 
ries, — nudi, recti et venusti (I think that ’s the expres- 
sion, all right), omni ornatu orationis tamquam veste 
detracta^ — “Unadorned, severe and decent, stripped of 
all the embellishment of expression, like a garment.” But 
I was carried away from its actual state — nudus — into 
its ideal state, — rectus et venustiis. Decent, comely, — 
that is the best attribute for a man, his thoughts, and his 
actions, that there can be. But you see my poor book 
never got beyond starkness. It was meant to be as a sort 
of introduction, or prelude, to a future work, — my mag- 
mini opus. I did not care to tell the tale of my failure — 
not, at least, till I could tell with it the tale of my suc- 
cess. But ... if anything happened to me — Who can 
foresee even a moment here? Quid humanitus, as Cicero 
has it — any of those chances to which humanity is liable — ” 
He paused again. His speech seemed perseveringly jerky. 

I waited. He resumed, — 

“ I should like it brought out — then; supposing, I mean 
— ■ supposing aliquid humanitus. For, you see, it might 
be of some use to others; more especially to those follow- 
ing on my track. It contains my attempt from the south, 
and my last journey ending at Injigi.” 

“Yes?” I said. 


A Child of the Age. 


133 


Another pause. 

Then he, “ Ah, hut I thought I had the bird in my 
hand that time! Only in the bush, — only in the bush! 
And I with ho more twine with which to mend broken 
nets and snare it. I have not told you before, how bitter 
that moment was to me. To turn back at Mount Nebo, 
within sight of Canaan, into the sandy desert, so hot and 
waterless! And as I turned, verily, my anguish shamed 
me out of my manliness to play the woman. I did restrain 
myself till they had pitched the tent there, in the roar and 
very breath of the mighty waters; but then I went apart, 
and sat, and looked at the smoking columns of the Falls 
fading into the purpling sky, and wept. It seemed to me, 
as I sat there alone that evening, that I was not turning 
back, to come again with new victorious face and reach to 
it; but it seemed to me — I cannot tell you how, or why; 
I can only tell you that so it was. — It seemed to me, I 
say, that a still small voice spoke whispering to my heart, 
and I knew that I should not see Mount Nebo again; 
should not even cross the desert again, but die far away in 
the land of Egypt, in a land of glory and sin.” 

Another pause. 

He went on : — 

“ Since then I have tried to persuade myself that I was 
mistaken. Life is so ordinary, it is hard to believe always 
in the faith of one’s higher moments. — And you see, my 
dear boy, in a few days we are off. What do you say? 
Well, what I want to tell you is this. Supposing aliquid 
humanitus. You follow me ? ” 

He looked at me, who was a little mystified by it all. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ to a certain extent.” 

He smiled. 

“ Ah, you ’ve grown deep into my heart, boy! you can- 
not know how deep! Perhaps there is some selfishness in 
my love for you; I do not say that there is none. But I 


134 


A Child of the Age. 

do love you! — I have been rather sharp with you at times; 
forget it. It is, that I cannot bear to see you with the 
ideas you have about this beautiful world — and God. It 
seems to me almost a crime that you . . .'Forgive me. 
Now you do, now? ” 

He had touched my leg, laid his hand on it, and looked 
so fondly into my eyes that I was moved, but not quite 
with an answering feeling to what he called his love. I 
turned my look aside. 

“ You see that I believe in you,” he said, — “ believe in 
you even as you are now, — a mere boy! I know that if 
you only had some great work cut out for you to do, you 
would do it, and that there would be no need for it to be 
done again — something that would require all your heart 
and soul. At present. . . . Why , I am afraid for you, and 
that is the truth. And being afraid, I am jealous for you, 
and so — cross with you. That is my way. . . . Can’t you 
understand it ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said, “I think so.” 

He went on at last, I was glad, looking away from me. 

“ I have this presentiment in my mind, and I cannot 
shake it off. I shall never reach my heart’s desire. God’s 
will be done! — And I feel it so strongly that I ... I am 
afraid I am very clumsy, beating about the bush like this. 
See now. Here it is out straight for you. I want you 
to promise me to go on and finish what I feel I shall never 
be able to do more than begin. — Every river, every lake 
of that land shall be mapped out and known! (His voice 
rose and rang.) Why, I tell you I dreamt about it, as a 
boy, at school. I have kept it by me all my life. A 
grand idea! But not yet, — not yet, you understand. 
That would be foolish. If we, — if they fail this time, I 
want you to come back to England, and wait here four or 
five years, preparing for it. You will grow apace. Then try 
again; and when you do it, — when you do it! then . . . 


135 


A Child of the Age. 

tell them of my poor old dead hook, and of me, just a 
little, to say how I dreamed of that hour all my life! 
Oh, no, none of the glory! I don’t want any of that. 
All that shall be yours. But — if I could only think that 
through me, if not by me, the thing had been done at last 
— if I could only think that, why — ” 

He began again, deliberately, — 

“ I want you to promise me, that in the event of any- 
thing happening to me, you will devote yourself to the 
Cause. You see? Study for it, toil for it, — do for it 
everything, forget nothing. On that condition I make you 
my heir.” 

There was a pause. 

Then I said, quite simply, — 

“I cannot! ” 

“Yes, yes,” he cried, “you can do it, if any one can, 
and it is to be done! I am sure you can do it! I know 
you better than you know yourself. You will grow old 
apace ; a man by twenty, a — something more than a man 
by thirty, if God wills. I pray He may. No, I say, 
don’t be afraid of that. I have no relation whom I can 
wrong by making you my heir. Be easy on that point.” 

He stopped suddenly. 

“ You answer nothing ? ” 

In a little, I, with my eyes downcast, said, — 

“ You have so completely taken me by surprise — ” 

“Yes, yes, yes, I know. It was foolish of me. I had 
intended working up to it slowly, training you into what 
I wanted you to become.” 

He began to drift away. 

“ Last night I — I had a horrible, a horrible dream — • 
Strange, — strange how We all are troubled by our dreams ! 
What accursed shadows I saw! — shadows of sin, shadows 
of a tormented universe. Oh, my God! — My time is 
short — I know it. I shall not get further than Paris. 


136 


A Child of the Age. 

I know it — ‘Blake, old fellow, Allan’s dead.’ ‘Dead? ’ 
he said. ‘Yes, dead. Renshaw brought me news of it 
last night. He carried him on his back, over a mile, 
through the sands. It was evening when they got to the 
water-hole. Allan was delirious. I cannot think of his 
poor parched lips muttering, and his eyes stared so, 
Renshaw says. But at the last he grew quite calm, and 
asked him to hold him up. ‘Are those the mountains out 
there? ’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ said Renshaw. ‘How peaceful 
they are ! ’ Then he closed his eyes for a little, but opened 
them all of a sudden, and cried out, ‘Do you see the Cross 
there?’ ‘Ho,’ said Renshaw. ‘Where?’ ‘Upon the 
mountain top, — the ridge, I mean. Christ is holding it. 
How sweet his face is! Oh, what a light, — what a light! 
It bursts out all round him. And see, the shadow! 
There, there on the sand. The shadow of the Cross. 
Nearer — nearer — nearer, fleet over the golden sand. The 
shadow of the Cross! ’ And so he died.” 

1 shook him by the arm. 

“ Sir, sir — You are ill,” I said. 

“ No,” he said, “ not ill, only tired.” 

All at once he started up. 

“ I ’ve been talking quickly — My blood ’s been boil- 
ing; but I’m all right now. You have understood all 
that I said? No. I see that you don’t realize it. Well, 
well. That is nothing. We T1 begin again. No, I assure 
you, I ’m all right now. Sit down. Draw your chair 
closer. Now I will go through it again.” 

It seemed he had quite forgotten the story he had told 
me of his friend’s death. He began to explain the object 
of the expedition, what was to be done this time, what 
was to be done next time ; lastly, what he wanted me to 
do. I listened patiently, although I was, as it were, phys- 
ically wearied of it all. 

Dawn was breaking as I stood looking from my bed- 


137 


A Child of the Age. 

room window. I wished that I stood on some Tlmmes 
bridge, to look at the sleeping town; then turned away, 
sighing, and glad that I was not there — anywhere but 
where I was, — a few yards off my cool, comfortable bed. 

As I had one knee on it, getting in, I paused, made 
half-irresolute by a thought. How long was it since I had 
prayed? Had I grown so sure, then, that there was no 
“ good ” in it ? None ! none ! “ If God is, He knows what 

is in my heart without my telling Him. And yet I 
have n’t given much thought to the subject of late ; not 
had time to go searching for new material with which to 
build up my belief in disbelief, as I used to do at Glaston- 
bury. Ah, I was a boy then. Now I am — a fool to be 
standing here like this.” I was into bed and had the 
plothes over me. 

I wonder what Eosy ’s doing now? Asleep, of course, 
like a good little girl. . I wish I was ! I wish this world 
had never been made. I wish I had never been born, and 
then I should n’t have been plagued with all these things. 
No, this world is not much of a place to be happy in. 


II. 

For some time, when I lay half-awake next morning, I 
was aware of a letter with the usual cup of tea by my bed- 
side. At last I roused myself sufficiently to stretch out 
my hand and lift the letter into the bed by me. Then I 
managed to open it, and began, still half-awake, to read 
it : — 

Dear Mr. Leicester, — I have been informed of your ap- 
pointment as private secretary to Mr. Brooke, and that you are 
about to accompany him on his expedition to Central Africa, to 
which I wish all possible success. I have a profound admiration 
for Mr. Brooke personally. I once had the honor of meeting 


138 


A Child of the Age. 

him at the house of my distinguished friend, Professor Strachan, 
F.R.S. I think that you are to be greatly congratulated on the 
results of your independent course of action in having faced the 
world so boldly on your own account [about this point I woke up 
completely], and I have no doubt that you will always do credit 
to the name you bear. I have to regret and apologize for any 
little disagreeableness that may have arisen during our last inter- 
view, and to ask you to ascribe it to the very indifferent state of 
my health at the time. I am still, I believe, in rather a critical 
condition; but my doctors give me every hope of the ultimate 
recovery of my accustomed vigor. Thinking that perhaps you 
might require some small moneys, cash for your outfit, etc., I have 
directed that the sum of one hundred pounds shall be deposited 
to your account at my agents’, Messrs. Milnes & Co., Axe Street, 
which you will do me a great pleasure by accepting as a small 
token of my personal regard. I remain. 

Yours truly, 

Thos. R. James. 

B. Leicester, Esq. 

P. S. — The hundred pounds will be handed over to you on 
personal application. I have to ask your indulgence for the 
indifferent composition of this letter, which you must please to 
ascribe to my present condition. I find any mental effort very 
painful to me. 

I lay back, with my head deep in the pillow, staring 
at the ceiling. “Either the man is soft-brained,” I 
thought, “ or flunkey -hearted, or — I don’t understand it. 
But I certainly sha’n’t waste a quarter of another minute 
in trying to. What ’s the old hypochondriac to me ? Of 
course, I won’t take his money, damn him ! ” 

Then a crowd of other thoughts came upon me. There 
was Rosy, and my books still at Glastonbury, and the gen- 
eral futility of existence, and particularly of my own. 

A barrel-organ began playing, some way off. I lay and 
listened to it in an arid disgust. At last it stopped. 
Then I got up and proceeded to my toilet. “ This is what 


139 


A Child of the Age. 

is generally known as getting, or having got, out of the 
wrong side of your bed this morning,” thought I, going 
downstairs. 

Mr. Brooke seemed better. He talked to me quite 
naturally, at breakfast, about things. Then we parted; he 
to go, I do not know where, I to see about some orders 
that had not been punctually fulfilled, etc. But when we 
met again at luncheon, I thought he had rather a beaten- 
out look, — a look of extreme weariness. I ascribed it to 
the amount of conventional thought and worry that he had 
gone through of late, and perhaps a little to the unusual 
excitement of last night. 

The next day was quite ordinary and uneventful. And 
so the day after. Everything was done now. We were to 
start early in the morning from Charing Cross. Conse- 
quently, that night we went to bed earlier than usual, — at 
about half-past nine. 

I, out in the hall, lit my candle first, said good-night to 
him in the library, and was almost up to the top of the 
first staircase, where our ways separated, when I heard 
him call out. I stopped and listened. He called again, — 

“ Boy! ” 

I answered, “ Yes? ” 

“ Good-night! ” 

“ Good-night.” 

“ No, wait. I will be up in a moment to shake hands 
with you. The night before the campaign opens, eh? ” 

He came out, lit his candle (I watched him over the 
bannisters. I see him now), and came up slowly. I 
stepped back, and stood waiting for him in the dark 
entrance of the passage. 

Then we shook hands; but he did not let mine go after 
he had pressed it. I turned my eyes from his face gen- 
erally to his eyes, and looked into them, puckering up my 
mouth a little to one side. 


140 


A Child of the Age. 

He smiled; smiled a second time, and let fall my hand. 
He meant something by that smile, and I understood some- 
thing; hut I did not, and do not, quite know what. 

Mine was a dreamless sleep that night. 

Sitting opposite him in the railway carriage, some five 
minutes before we were to start, he caught me glancing at 
him in a peculiar way. 

“I can tell you what you are thinking of,” he said, 
bending towards me and putting his hand on my knee. 
“ You are half-puzzled, half-amused at my ‘delusion.’ 
Oh, yes, that’s your word, — ‘delusion.’ Very well. 
We shall see what we shall see. My dear boy, I am not 
given to morbidity, believe me. You did n’t forget to get 
some papers ? ” 

I started up. 

“ I am sorry. I have forgotten all about them ; I will 
go at once. What papers shall I get ? ” 

“ Ho, I should have got them myself. Let me go. I 
have been doing all the talking, and you all the work. It 
was very kind of old Gordon to come down to give me a 
God-speed and shake o’ the hand, wasn’t it, Starkie? 
You didn’t see him, I thought; he kept me chattering 
with him. Stop, stop! I ’ll go. I really insist on 
going! ” 

“ It is only at the end of the platform, sir,” I said. 
“ Let me — ” 

“No, no, I will go myself! You stop here. Is there 
any paper you particularly like, Starkie? Are you a 
liberal or a conservative?” 

Mr. Starkie, with his feet upon the cushions, looked 
round with his uusal beard-twitching smile. 

“ Oh, I ’m neither. They ’re both equally bad. Get 
me a ‘society ’ paper.” 

As Mr. Brooke hurried away, Mr. Starkie said some- 
thing sarcastic about “ society ” papers. Then, after a pause 


141 


A Child of the Age. 

(I knew nothing about “ society ” papers), I went on to the 
platform, and began walking up and down before the 
carriage. 

All at once I saw Mr. Brooke, with some papers in his 
hand, coming towards the open gate. A shabbily dressed 
man was slouching along at right-angles to him. They 
met. I saw Mr. Brooke start back, half-loose and then 
clutch the papers, let the man pass by, and then come 
towards me, but more slowly. 

I thought nothing of it, re-entered the carriage, and a 
moment after he was at the door, and threw the papers on 
to the seat. I was arranging some rugs upon the rack. 
Then the guard came to the door to examine our tickets. 
I had Mr. Brooke’s. As I gave it up with mine, I noticed 
him. He was sitting staring in front of him, with his 
hands supporting his head. He was very pale. I stood 
in doubt, looking at him. 

“ Are you ill 'i ” 1 asked. 

He started and laughed. 

“ Oh, it is nothing ! We are to have a fine day for our 
journey. See how the sun is shining through the mist ! 
It must be quite clear out in the country — Do you know 
what time we get to Dover, Starkie? ” 

There was a door between Mr. Brooke’s room and mine 
at the Hotel de Manchester, in Paris. We had it opened, 
and talked as we were dressing for dinner. He was in- 
structing me in the programme that had to be gone through 
here in Paris. I was at my glass, spoiling a white tie, 
when I heard him come from his room into mine, but did 
not turn, thinking he was only continuing the conversa- 
tion. All at once I saw his face reflected beside mine. 
I jerked myself round. 

His eyes kept opening and shutting. I caught him by 
the arm. He smiled at me. 


142 


A Child of the Age. 

“ It is as I thought,” he said slowly. “ We must get 
out of this, boy — That man at the station. I ran against 
him.” 

He shuddered. I heard his teeth click as he closed his 
jaws. 

“ You are ill ? ” 

“Yes. That man! It went through me like Weland’s 
sword. Oh, the horrible smell! ” 

“ You think you have caught the small-pox? ” I said. 

“ I do not think, I know. How weak my eyes are. I 
could almost fancy I saw motes before — What folly ! ” 

“It is the crossing,” I said. “You will be all right, 
soon.” 

“The crossing? An old sailor like me? Pooh! And 
yet — ” 

He began to consider to himself. 

“ And yet — how possibly — ” 

I caught him by the arm. 

“Stop, stop!” I said. “You will give yourself the 
small-pox if you go on at that rate. Have you been 
vaccinated? ” 

He moved from me, saying, with great calmness, — 

“Not I! Nonsense, every bit of it! I never wanted to 
have all the vile diseases flesh is heir to pumped into my 
system with bad lymph. See. I will sit down here, on 
tlie bed. I don’t feel well, that ’s all — at present. Giddy. 
Go and tell Starkie. Then go and And a room for me 
somewhere. A nice room, and flowers. Mind you tell 
the people what it’s for, — a case of small-pox.” (He 
stopped and smiled.) “ Variola confiuens^ if they are 
particular. That means something like the certainty of a 
dead body in the house. You may add that; people like 
to know. Never mind what you have to pay. A nice 
room, Leicester. Kemember, I shall want to be in it — 
probably a fortnight — before I die. I used to like Passy; 


A Child of the Age. 143 

try in Passy. Now go. No, I am not mad; not in tlie 
least.” 

“ Will you let me fetch a doctor? ” I said. 

“ You will anger me in a moment. Go and tell Starkie, 
and find me a nice room. I want to get there while I am 
sure of myself. We must think of other people as well as 
of ourselves. Please go at once.” 

I went to Starkie, and sent him into my room, then ran 
downstairs, found out the maitre d' hotels and tried to 
explain to him that I wanted to know where I should be 
able to find a house agent. Seeing that I only contused 
the man, I came up to the room again. 

Mr. Starkie was sitting beside Mr. Brooke, speaking to 
him earnestly, — trying, I think, to persuade him that he 
was mistaken in his idea about the small -pox. He stopped 
speaking as I came in. 

I explained how useless it was for me to try to get what 
was wanted. I did not know a street in Paris, and could 
not speak French. Mr. Starkie had better go, and leave 
me here with Mr. Brooke. They both seemed to see this. 
jVIr. Starkie jumped up, saying that of course I was quite 
right. It would be a dreadful waste of time for me to go, 
and in the end I might not be successful. Mr. Brooke 
thanked him. 

As the door closed I sat down beside the bed. 

After a little, — 

“ 1 wish you would let me get a doctor,” I said. 

‘‘Not yet, not yet, — useless! We shall see, boy, in a 
little while. I hate doctors. They are a blundering 
race — But I have one or two things to say to you before 
you go — Bertram.” 

It was the first time he (or indeed, any one, since I 
was quite a child) called me by my Christian name. I 
felt a sort of answering thrill in me. 

“ Before I go ? ” I said. 


144 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Yes. I shall not allow you to stay, and run the chance 
of catching it; that would never do. ISIor must Starkie; 
he will have to hurry on to Brindisi. But I afraid 
Clarkson won’t care to go on without me — And he 
wishes to put it off, too. It is hard, after all these years.” 

A pause. 

“ I have been speaking to him about you,” he went on. 
“ He knows all my wishes. He is one of my executors — 
A brave man, rough and ready ; will follow anywhere, but 
can’t lead. Clarkson has all the brains of the party. You 
must have scientific observation to hand, or you can never 
do any real good. That is the mistake we have all of us 
made. Brave men can plod on, and when there is need, 
shoot straight (but the less shooting, the better) ; but there 
is something else wanted as well, and that’s perception. 
They don’t recognize more than half they see. There has 
only been one naturalist in Africa, yet, — Klesmer, I 
mean. Think of that ! And he, poor devil, came to grief 
on the ubiquitous reef of poverty. I have often regretted 
I did n’t know of him in time. But it ’s the old, old 
story. When they had muscle, they hadn’t brains; and 
when they had brains, they hadn’t muscle. These ex- 
plorers (especially the French) are a queer lot. Du Camp’s 
gorillas are — well, let’s only say exaggerations. And 
as for Louis — But there, there ! Starkie knows all 
about it; he will tell you some day. I have a thousand 
things in my head, and can only bring you out one, — 
about yourself. You would not promise, that night, to 
give up your life to the ‘Cause.’ You said that you 
believed you had other work to do. I want you to prom- 
ise now. You must leave me to-night, Bertram, — very 
soon.” 

“ Leave you? Here, with strangers? ” 

“ I want no one but the Sisters. I have seen them at 
work before; have w'orked with them. They are all I 


145 


A Child of the Age. 

want. With the small-pox, men die in delirium, loath- 
some to every one. You could not stay — I am thinking 
of going into an hospital instead of taking an apartment — ■ 
if it can be managed as I want it. Starkie lias gone to 
see. That was a foolish idea of mine ; I am glad you came 
back. It is all right. Starkie knows all about it. If 
the doctors will only leave me alone! — Oh, boy,” he said, 
“ if you would but promise to try! Go back and study, 
say, for three years, — only three years. And learn every- 
thing, — everything. And then go down there for another 
year to learn the life. And you will pick up experience 
very quickly. I know you. Starkie says he will do it ; he 
will not be too old. A brave fellow. Ah, dear ! ah, dear ! 
I have so many things that I want to tell you ; so many, 
— so many that they confuse me, and I can scarcely tell you 
anything. All one gigantic jumble, eh? But I have not 
been like myself since that dream — You will promise? ” 

I answered nothing. 

He lifted up his head. 

“ Promise me. I am so sure you could do it. If you 
only had some beacon-light to steer by. At times I have 
thought that I am infatuated about you. You did not 
know that I was married once ? — And God took away 
my son from me. Yet I bore it. And then my wife, too. 
‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed 
be the name of the LordP That was what Blake said to 
me in the evening when my son died. I only saw him 
dead. It was very sudden. Dear child! dear child! — 
You have something of him in you, Bertram, at times. 
And then Ratcliffe came and fell ill. He was not worth 
much, — intelligent, and all that; but had no interest in 
his work, and could not have done much for it if he had 
had. And then God sent you to me. Your struggle in 
London! Oh, you must promise me! — Ha! I am a 
fond old fool.” 


10 


146 


A Child of the Age. 

At last, “ You have not answered me,” lie said. “ Will 
you not promise ? How taciturn you are sometimes ! ” 

“ I cannot, sir. It is as if you asked me to become a 
jDriest, — having no vocation.” 

“But I have determined that you shall promise! I 
have made you my heir. I am not rich. Some eight 
hundred a year now; much less than I once had. I have 
spent much in the Cause. You will promise ? ” 

“I cannot, sir. I thank you none the less; hut you 
must give it to some one else, — to Mr. Starkie. I cannot 
promise to give up my life to the pursuit of a thing I do 
not care for, — I mean, care for enough for that.” 

After a little, he, — 

“ You will think better of it when you are older. You 
are full of dreams now. Promise me now. In five 
years — It is not for five years.” 

“ I cannot promise. You must not leave me that 
money ; I could not take it without I did promise, and I 
will never promise. How could I — honestly ? ” 

He sighed. 

“My head is too heavy. I cannot talk any more now. 
Remember; I will alter nothing. You Avill go some day. 
Wait till you have been out in the world, boy. I have 
seen bees covered with tiny red spiders innumerable, 
tickled to death. I will alter nothing.” 

I took his hand gently. 

“I am sorry, sir,” I said, “ to seem so ungrateful. It is 
not that I am, really; but — I cannot do this; I cannot 
give up my life to such a thing. Do not think that I set 
great store by my life. I do not. I am not far from in- 
different whether I live or whether I die — as yet. But, 
as you have just said, I am full of dreams. I have 
scarcely dared to whisper to my own heart what they are ; 
but, such as they are, I will either climb up to them or to 
nothing. Greatness is the only truth.” 


147 


A Child of the Age. 

In a little, he said, — 

“Oh, greatness, greatness! — what greatness, hoy? It 
is all vague — visions — dreams — emptiness 1 ” 

“ No, no, not to me — now.” 

“I am too weary to talk of it any more. Eest, rest! 
this is not the end.” 

I did not say what was upon my tongue; I was foolish 
to have said so much. I kept silence for a little. Then, — 

“ Can I get you nothing? ” I said. 

“Nothing, nothing! Let us wait for Starkie.” 

I rested my elbow on my knee, and my chin upon my 
hand, and so sat, looking at the floor. Mr. Brooke lay 
motionless on his back, with his eyes closed. His breath- 
ing seemed to me short and heavy. 

At last Starkie came. It was all right. Mr. Brooke 
might go to the hospital. 

Just before he went downstairs he asked Mr. Starkie 
to leave us alone for a moment. I stood by the large 
Avardrohe mirror, with a certain feeling of almost shame, 
making me wish to avert my eyes from his face. He came 
to me — put one hand on to my shoulder, in his old way, 
smiling, and said, — 

“ Well, Starkie knows all about the Book, too. It is to 
be brought out soon after my death, and you are to be 
joint editor with him.” 

“ I, sir? I know nothing about Africa, — nothing even 
of literary matters. How shall I — ? ” 

“ I wish it so. You will not refuse me this? ” 

“ But, sir, I am so young.” 

“People will laugh. Is that it? ” 

“ What people do, or do not do, is nothing to me.” 

“ You say it with lots of emphasis. Very well. Then 
you accept? ” 

“ Yes, sir. But I hope that neither Mr. Starkie nor I 
may ever have to touch your book. Y'ou may recover.” 


148 


A Child of the Age. 

He smiled again, less sadly than before, it seemed to me. 

“ No, no, that is not to be ! God has laid his hand upon 
me; and I am to pay the penalty of my sin. It is just. 
May His will be done in all things.’' 

I answered nothing. 

He sighed, let fall his hand from my shoulder listlessly, 
turned, and was moving to the door. 1 followed him, and 
touched his arm. 

“ You have not said good-bye to me, sir,” I said. 

I passed in front of him. He raised a hand to either 
shoulder, feeling up my right sleeve, hut not the other, 
then bent his face forward towards mine, murmuring, — 

“ My eyes are a little weak. I too am a little weak, — • 
a little feeble. That is tautological — eh? I did not say 
good-bye to you? That was careless of me. You were 
ill my thoughts, — in the thoughts behind my thoughts, 
Bertram. Good-bye, boy, good-bye! I have no fear for 
thee — in the end. Thou wilt do it in the end. Keep a 
brave heart. God is not so far from thee. ” 

His lips moved after that, but I heard no sound that 
came from them; then felt tlie pressure of his hands 
moving me aside, caught the door-handle, turned and 
opened the door, and he went out. 

1 stood watching him. Mr. Starkie was at the top of 
the stairs. He otiered Mr. Brooke his arm, who half- 
absently took it, then started, looked at him, and smiled. 
They went down together, slowly. 

Mr. Starkie was to go on to Brindisi next day. I told 
him that 1 would not leave Parismntil 1 had heard decisive 
news of Mr. Brooke. I had still £15 left from my £25, 
and had scarcely spent anything, Mr. Brooke having 
insisted on paying all my expenses of outfit, etc. 

Mr. Starkie told me of a “ pension ” in the Avenue de 
Fontenoi, I went there on the same evening that Mr. 


149 


A Child of the Age. 

Brooke went to the hospital. The last thing Mr. Starkie 
said to me (we were sitting in the courtyard of the hotel; 
I was about to leave him for the “ pension ”) was that he 
• had very little doubt but that Clarkson would agree to 
give up the expedition; but still, if he wished to go on, 
there was nothing left but to go on with him, in which 
case I should hear at once, either by letter or from Mr. 
Starkie himself. As for my expenses at Paris, those 
would, of course, be defrayed by Mr. Brooke; but of this, 
and many other matters, more anon. 

It was late in the evening when I arrived at the Avenue 
de Fontenoi. I went straight up to bed and slept heavily. 

In the morning no one appeared for cafe an la it and 
j)etit pain in the salle-a-manger but Madame Rouff, her 
child, and myself. I learned from her that there was a 
park quite close to us, — the Parc Monceau. 

I went there at once. It is a pretty greenery. I found 
a sunlit, bubbling spring at the end of a pool in what I 
took to be a sham ruin. And so, first of all, sitting 
watching and playing with the stream, then sitting watch- 
ing the passers and some horses being tried, I was happy 
enough for the time. The sense of it all being in an air 
and place somewhere between dream and reality was per- 
petually with me. There were water-jets of pierced hose 
playing to right and left on the fresh grass, cooings of 
pigeons, and the flappings of their wings as they took 
flight, small birds taking baths in the dust, all the morning 
smiling and soft and fresh-breathed. I thought of my first 
morning in Regent’s Park, and of others, and that by 
degrees led me to thinking of Rosy. What was she doing 
now 1 And Minnie ? Such a dear beast, but infernally 
thin. 

Later in the day I went to inquire about Mr. Brooke. 
Nothing new. “The symptoms of small-pox, you know, 
sir, advance with order. This does not hurry itself for 


150 


A Cliild of the Age, 

any one. You must keep quiet.” And so, day after day, 
I went, and it was always the same answer, — This 
advances, this goes on advancing.” 

I tried once to make myself unhappy by thinking about 
him. I could not. IMy sorrow for him was of itself 
hushed and not untender; but I could not make it into a 
disturbing gnat buzzing in ray ears at all hours. After 
that one attempt, 1 let my thoughts wander on at pleasure, 
as I had always done before, and was contented; for such 
unceasing misery, producible, it seemed to me, by con- 
tinued concentration of the mind on one subject, was not 
true. I instinctively shrank from it. 

My old wandering spirit came back upon me, in Paris, 
quickly enough. I had nothing to interest me indoors. 
Perhaps there were few things that could have taken me 
out of myself then. 1 was living for my "dreams.” I 
saw many things before me. 

So passed ten or twelve weary days, whose only memory 
to me is unrecorded wearine.ss. At last I received a letter 
from Starkie, saying that he was back at the Hotel de 
INIanchester. Clarkson had decided to proceed; but Starkie 
had refused to do so until Brooke’s fate was decided. I 
went down to him, and we discussed the 'whole matter 
together. Then the weary time began again. I spent 
most of it in wandering about Paris, reading, and talking 
with Starkie; but that last was only as we went down 
together to the hospital each morning for news, and some- 
times an hour or so in the evenings, he having a good 
deal of business to do in one shape or another. 

On about the thirteenth day (but all accurate record or 
memory is gone), I lit upon the Louvre, and from that 
hour forward was in it continually. It gave me much 
quiet pleasure. 

This was broken into by the news of the nineteenth 
morning. Secondary fever had set in. For the first time. 


151 


A Child of the Age. 

Starkie seemed to give up hope. The effect on me was 
quite different. I could not realize the fact of Mr. Brooke 
being in the state I, I almost thought, knew he was in. 
I went into the Parc Monceau, and sat there in a sort of 
warm, gold dream of wilderment for some time, till, all at 
once, I caught myself starting up with the exclamation, — 

“ No, no! If I was right, then, in refusing, I am right 
in now having refused.” And I was right. For what had 
I to do with it? 

I spent the afternoon sculling on the river out at 
Courhevoi. 

After dinner I went for a walk along the boulevards, 
softly singing or whistling to myself, till, in a dim street 
by the Opera, I woke up out of vague, sweet thoughts into 
the perception of something like a breath of fluttering 
music in me, now melting, now languorous, now fierce, 
floating up into my brain, and pulsing through me, from 
time to time, with a longing and yearning to stretch out 
my arms in a happy cry to something. And in this 
strange, half-ecstatic state I came home, threw off my 
things, and got into bed as into a white, cool haven. 

In that night I had a strange and vivid dream. I stood 
below somewhere, and saw a lady I had known once, in a 
carriage, with a dead child, on a green-lit down by the 
sea. The carriage had just crossed a bridge. A river 
rolled down smoothly over golden sands. A boy on the 
right shore stood watching a ball that the up-cresting 
sea-waves kept lifting up to and back from him every 
moment. 

I rose, and crossed over the stone bridge, came behind 
the carriage, and began climbing over 'it from the back. 
The lady turned, and, seeing me, put out her brown- 
gloved hand to me; and then, when I would have caught 
and pressed it into my bosom, touched my chest with her 
finger-tips, the carriage moved onwards, the child wailed, 


152 


A Child of the Age. 

I fell backwards and down, and awoke, trembling and wet 
with trickling sweat. 

It was the next morning that, when we came together 
to the hospital, they told us that Mr. Brooke had died 
during the night, delirious. 

In a long moment Starkie turned away. I followed 
him. 

We went in silence along the pavement, with the on- 
moving people, till I said to myself, half aloud, — 

“ I cannot realize that it is so.” 

“Nor I,” he said in the same way, — “nor I, scarcely. 

. . . He was a good man.” 

Then I said, “ It is a deep thought to think that his 
soul has gone out like a candle, and that that is the end of 
him.” 

Starkie answered nothing. 

“ I wish,” I said, “ you would tell me truly, and from 
the bottom of your soul, do you believe that that is the 
end of him ? ” 

In a little, “ I believe it,” he said. “ The energy that 
was in him has undergone some change. W^e call that 
change death. It is, I believe, the end of us.” 

“ Do you think that, when that change comes to you, 
you will end, — that there will be no' more of you? ” 

“ I do. Death loses that which grips the gathered 
threads of our individualities. The threads fall away, 
going to other invisible work, just as the threads of the 
body, which is left, slowly fade into the earth and air, 
going for other visible work. What death — or, to use what 
seems to me its proper name, solution — may be I cannot, 
of course, pretend to guess; but our grandchildren may be 
able to, and their grandchildren, perhaps, to know. You 
asked me to tell you my belief, — what I truly, and from 
the bottom of my heart, believe. That is my belief.” 

“I thank you for it,” I said; “for, from to-day, I 


153 


A Child of the Age. 

purpose beginning my souPs life anew, and I might go far 
before I met one who believed nvliat you believe, and 
would tell it me as you have told it me. Will you let me 
ask you one more question ? ” 

“ Twenty, if you care to ask them.” 

“Have you not in you a feeling — a strange, unac- 
countable, but nevertheless undeniable feeling — that you 
— you — your individuality, as you said, cannot possibly 
be destroyed 1 ” 

“ You mean have I what is called the instinct of im- 
mortality? No, I have not, — now. When I first began 
to think about these things, my mind was strongly prepos- 
sessed in favor of immortality, and, consequently, this 
instinct soon developed itself from its passive unconscious- 
ness into active consciousness, and I held fast to the idea 
of immortality when everything else, save belief in a 
Deity, had gone. It was not till after more than three 
years of thoughtfulness and study that I learned that my 
desire for immortality was only a synonym for my selfish- 
ness; and, having learned this, I began to see, too, the 
complete needlessness, though as comi)lete naturalness, of 
that desire. I determined to devote my.self to benefiting, 
as far as I could, my fellow-men. Whether this was a 
result from, or parallel to, my loss of all belief in im- 
mortality, it would be difficult to say. At any rate, there 
are the two facts contemporaneous.” 

“ And do you not believe in a Deity, either? ” 

“ 1 cannot answer you, for I do not know. I am con- 
tent, seeing a world full of ignorance and Avoe, to strive 
to lessen however little of that ignorance, knowing that 
thereby* I shall lessen a corresponding amount of that woe. 
This seems to me the one undeniable duty of each of us, — 
to make the earth better for our having been in it.” 

I answered nothing. We walked on together in silence, 
till we came to the hotel door. Then, as he, half turning. 


154 


A Child of the Age. 

faced me, I held out my hand for his; and when it was in 
mine, pressed it, lookipg into his eyes that looked into 
mine, and I said, — 

“ Thank you.” 

We passed to other matters; for what more was to be 
said or done as regarded this? 

We bought Brooke’s grave in Pere-la*Chaise, a per- 
petuite. Upon the tombstone a plain white marble cross 
was to be put, his name, the dates of his birth and death, 
and below, — 

“Thy will be done.” 


III. 

On my way to London, I sketched out something like a 
plan of action for what I should do when I got there. 
The first thing, I thought, was the mastering of Mr. 
Brooke’s business affairs, — all (I meant) that was con- 
nected with his property and money ; the next thing, the 
editing of the Book. I had determined to take as much 
of the income of one year as would keep me in comfort 
while I was engaged upon my work for him. Starkie had 
given me a letter of introduction to Professor Strachan, 
who would assist me, or rather, who would be assisted by 
me. Doubtless, after the first few weeks, I should be 
able to find time to set about the recovery of my books and 
clothes from Glastonbury ; also to see Posy ; also to medi- 
tate as to what I should do when the time of my work for 
Mr. Brooke was over. 

I had a certain amount of trouble about the business 
affairs, despite both what Starkie had already done to save 
me from as much of it as possible, and the extreme cour- 
tesy and, indeed, kindness of Mr. Brooke’s lawyers. 
Howbeit, at the end of some ten days, I found that it was 


A Cl did of the Age. 155 

now time to present the letter of introduction to Professor 
Strachan. 

He received me quite cordially. I had, at a dinner at 
]\[r. Brooke’s, seen, but not spoken to him, and so he was 
not altogether a stranger to me; besides which, I had 
heard a good deal about him from Starkie on our last 
night together, and he, I could see, was not unacquainted 
with me. He arranged to come to Dunraven Place tlie 
next morning, and we would then proceed to examine the 
work that was before us 

After we had talked a little on general subjects, he 
asked me to go up with him and have some tea with Mrs. 
Strachan, in the drawing-room. U p, then, we went, and into 
the drawing-room, where we found three womenkind, — one 
middle-aged, and two young, to whom I was presented, — 
jMrs. and the two Miss Strachans. Mrs. Strachan struck 
me as an ordinary good-looking middle-aged female, and 
her two daughters as two ordinary pretty young females, 
clothed with decorous fashionableness, and speaking plati- 
tudes of the most irreproachable character, — or, shortly, as 
three “ladies.” And, this seeming so, it followed that 
not even a certain demureness in Miss Connie’s face and 
manner, not unsuggestive of experience in the art of flirt- 
ing, added to what I subsequently was told was a “grave 
sweetness ” in Miss Isabel, were enough to entice me out 
of my shell. It was far more amusing, as it seemed to me, 
to sit and listen to their silly prattle, which, it was not 
hard to see, they took for delightful, if not brilliant, con- 
versation, than to enter into the splashing shallows myself; 
for if I had been a talker, I must inevitably have missed 
over half of the nature-strokes which, as a listener, I 
caught. The amusement of hearing Mrs. Strachan and 
her daughters talk about “Culture,” while the Professor 
sat drinking his tea, and occasionally throwing in a gibe, 
which they either did not hear or quite misunderstood. 


156 


A Child of the Age. 

seemed to give me something of an insight into the mean- 
ing of the word “ Comedy.” Finally, towards the end of 
an almost irrepressible fit of amusement, I rose and said 
good-bye to them, and went away, down the stairs and 
out into the street, hot, and a little exhausted. If I had 
stayed much longer, I thought, I must have shown some 
sign that perhaps might have offended them, and that 
would have been to be regretted. And then I was led to 
think of my last society experiences of tliree — it seemed 
years, but it was only weeks ago, till I came to Dunraven 
Flace, when it occurred to me to write to Mother McCarthy 
about my things at Glastonbury. 

Accordingly I wrote, took out my letter and posted it, 
and went for a walk into the Park, — Hyde Park, — till 
seven, when it was time for supper. And after supper 
came a reading of “Esmond,” — highest Thackerayean 
art, — in the low, red-leathered armchair under the green- 
shaded lamp, till eleven, dumb-bells, bed, and sleep. 

The next morning Professor Strachan and I began our 
work. 

My journal takes out a new lease on that evening. It 
seems to have given me pleasure, though no great pleas- 
ure, I fancy, to record events or conversations, or to 
deliver some few of my impressions of present people and 
things in that way. Perhaps there was some small neces- 
sity upon me to write these things. I cannot say. 

Here is from a week later ; — 

“ We are often almost in despair over the manuscripts. In 
the first place, the writing is fearful. He seems to have thought 
it quite enough to write the first three or four letters of a word, 
for the rest is nearly always comprised in a twirl. Now, this is 
aggravating to the son of man. Then the journal is broken off 
by chance notes, and these notes have references to other note- 
books, and so on. I nCver was made for editing other people’s 


157 


A Child of the Age. 

books. I lack patience ; and the worst of it is, that I don’t 
believe that any one can do anything worth calling ‘ thing ’ with- 
out patience. The professor is Job and Griselda put into one. 

“ After a week’s hard work we have arranged the stuff — I 
should say materials or notes, I suppose — into something like 
chronological order, having separated the whole mass into three 
almost equal parts, to wit, the travels in Palestine and parts of 
Arabia, the expedition from South Africa upwards, and the last 
expedition to Injiji. 

“ A sheet was pasted on to the inside of the cover of the first 
note-book of the ‘Journal through Palestine and parts of Arabia,’ 
which we are going, we think, to use as an introduction to the 
two first expeditions. It is as follows : — 

“ ‘ This journal through Palestine and parts of Arabia was 
undertaken by me in 18 — , with a view to helping by details, 
principally geographical, my dear friend the Rev. Charles Blake, 
in the compilation of his proposed “ History of the Origins of 
Christianity.” On returning home, however, in 18 — , I learned 
that he had been compelled to abandon his scheme for certain 
most satisfactory reasons. I therefore laid aside my manuscript, 
hoping that events might some day make it possible for him to 
utilize it as he had originally intended. With that hope I seal it 
up now. In case of my death, this packet is to be given to him 
unopened.’ 

“‘February 15, 18 — . 

“ ‘ My journal through parts of Arabia was connected with the 
same scheme, Blake proposing to draw a parallel between the 
life of the Saviour and that of Mahomet, as illustrating — ’ [Last 
two words erased.] 

“ It seems in some way a little strange to be sitting here copy- 
ing out these words of a dead man It would perhaps seem 
really strange if I realized even now that he was dead. Is he 
dead ^ It seems rather as if he had gone a journey into a far 
land, and now stays there. I wonder if I shall ever read this 
after many years to come, and what shall I think of it then ? 

“ I think I should like to go to Palestine some day. Nazareth 
must be a very beautiful place from what he says of it, and what 
so sweet as to wander in that dear land, thinking of — ” \_Cet€Ta 
desunt, and this last scratched out.] 


158 


A Child of the Age. 


A little lower : — 

“ That sheet may originally have been pasted on the outside of 
the packet ; at any rate, the packet has been broken open ; for 
the note-books are all mingled with those of the other two 
journals in the drawer,” etc., etc. 

Another entry : — 

“ Books and things from Glastonbury. My Ruperti’s Juvenal 
missing, also my Greek Lex., also several note-books. A distinct 
nuisance. I have divided my day otf as follows : Breakfast, 8.30 ; 
Italian, 9 to 10; the Book with Strachan, 10 to 1 ; walk, 2 to 
5 ; Greek, 5 to 7 ; supper; Latin, 8 to 10 ; English, 10 to 11. I 
find it is the only way to get any real work done. Now and then 
I go with the Strachans to the theatre, or spend afternoons or 
evenings out at people’s houses. Mrs. Strachan does her best to 
drag me into what she calls ‘ society,’ by introducing me to her 
women friends (especially those having daughters), who send me 
invitation cards and the rest of it. I believe she would like to 
see me married, or at any rate engaged, to some young woman or 
other. She seems to look upon me as lawful prey in the matter 
of endurance of female agacerie. Sometimes I grow mischievous 
and talk ‘ atheism ’ to the young women she puts me with, or who 
are put with me, or whatever the real case may be. It is suffi- 
ciently amusing. I had great sport with Miss Isabel’s ‘ grave 
sweetness ’ last Wednesday afternoon in this way. (Miss Isabel 
would marry me, ‘ atheism ’ and all, I think, if I, after all proper 
formalities, asked her to ; which is a tribute to my personal 
charms and her belief in my personal possessions that I appre- 
ciate.) Miss Connie, however, resolutely refuses to be drawn 
into discussion of anything deeper than flirting, and I respect her 
for it. She is a frank little sensualist. Take it all in all, the 
womenkind 1 have so far met with have been of a most God- 
forsaken sort. There is not one that has seemed to me worth 
more than a mild sort of feeling that might by some be denomi- 
nated ‘ lust.’ The idea of having to live with one of these things 
for your natural life, short though it is ! But the idea is happily 
out of the question ; for where could you find one that would live 
with you without being your wife with bell, book, ring, and the 


159 


A Child of the Age. 

rest of it ? And I simply would not, could not, go through the 
foolery of the marriage service for any woman (or so I think) 
alive. The more I consider Christianity as compared with hu- 
manity, — I mean that Christianity is the only divinity, and all 
other than Christians are either damned or at the best deluded, — 
the more I revolt against it as an accursed libel on God, if He is, 
and His justice.” 

About three weeks later: — 

“ The first part of our work was finished to-day. I must say 
I hope the rest may be a little more interesting. And, indeed, 
it has at times seemed, perhaps illogically, that this ‘Journal 
through Palestine and parts of Arabia’ has been, as it were, extra 
\ work ; at any rate, it has at times made me feel a little aggrieved. 
) Strachan does n’t care for it, either. I told him that Mr. Stark ie 
had said nothing to me about it, nor yet of Blake’s proposed 
‘ History ’ in connection with which Brooke’s journey appeared 
to have been taken. He said that he had known of it through 
Clarkson, but had thought that the manuscript had been de- 
stroyed, he did not quite know why. 

“ We should have liked not to have suppressed or added a 
single word of it, for obvious reasons ; but this was really quite 
impossible. At times we came upon whole pages of what I dare 
say were abbreviations, but which were to us absolutely meaning- 
less signs. Then there were long extemporary prayers, coupled 
with the most childish virulent attacks on different scientific men 
of the day and Christians whose conceptions of Christianity were 
different to Brooke’s own. Now, all this was neither beautiful 
nor to the point, and, besides, we felt sure that he himself would 
never have wished them to see the light, at any rate, in their 
present form. Accordingly, we eliminated certain passages that 
seemed to us to offend, and were, I think, justified in so doing ; 
for to whom could they do good? Certainly not to the future 
investigator of the origins of Christianity; certainly not to the 
people who would read this book ; certainly not to the memory of 
Brooke. None the less, I for my part felt that it was very deli- 
cate work touching anything, and so (apparently) did Strachan. 
However, it ’s done now, and the best we could do it ; so what ’s 
the good of troubling ? 


160 


A Child of the Age. 

“ It is astonishing how carelessly he put his materials together, 
considering that the object in view was one apparently so dear to 
him. I had to copy it nearly all out. The only interesting part 
was where he debated upon the sincerity of Mahomet. This we 
left intact in the form of an excursus.” 

The next day has : — 

“ Went to Maitland Street this afternoon, after a good boring 
at Mrs. Cunningham’s. Upon my soul {fa^on de parler), I don’t 
think I will ever enter a drawing-room again. The sickening 
foolery we all talked ! And yet — [A pause expressed on 
continuing by half a row of dots.] . . . And yet, how, if 1 do not 
go out into the world and talk with people therein, am I ever 
likely to meet the woman I am to love, nay, love already in my 
heart. ? ‘ O dear woman with sweet, clear eyes, standing wait- 

ing and looking for me while in my light boat on that, the night 
of my life, I pass from the shadowiness in"o the silver-purled 
moon-track ; pass on and on to the grass mingled with the gently 
moving wave in which the roses dip I am there now, and know 
not of you ; see, breathe only this terrestrial beauty. I step from 
tlie boat into the soft grass ; the rope is tied, and I turn and come 
up through the rose-perfumed garden, up through the brushing 
dew-laden bushes ; and look into the blue unspeakable depth, and 
the stars, and one crystal-rayed star beside the peerless moon, and 
then look and see you, O dear woman mine, with sweet, clear eyes, 
standing waiting and looking for me, and feeling that I am come at 
last. And at first it seems that we are there in a dream, — parts, 
unknown parts of it ; and I come closer to you, closer and closer, 
till more than dream’s passion grows in me, and at last my eyes 
are in yours and yours in mine, and my lips can feel your playing 
breath. Oh, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss ; the draining of life 
and love ! “ Mine, mine, mine ; mine at last ! Met in the time of 

eternity ; met, and with a meeting that can never be undone. O 
thou loved, thou loved, thou art come to me at last ! O thou 
loved, thou loved, take me body and soul to thyself ! As river 
mingles with sea, as moisture with cloud, so let mine mingle with 
thine ; for 1 am thine, and thou art mine, and we are Love’s 1 ” ’ 

“ Rosy was out. [A pause, expressed as before.] 


161 


A Child of the Age. 

“ I do wonder if I ever really shall meet a ‘ dear woman ’? 
It does n’t seem like it somehow. At any rate, I sha’n’t meet her 
in that way. What brought up that sudden vision ? I saw it as 
distinctly as I see that window-curtain there with the red blind 
behind it. This is purposeless. 

“ Rosy was out, and as I did n’t feel like waiting, I scrawled a 
few lines for her on a leaf of my pocket-book, tore it out, and, 
giving it to Mrs. Smith, who was wiping her dirty hand on her 
dirtier apron, asked if any one had my room now. 

“‘Oh, yes, sir; Miss ’Owlet ’as it now, sirl Another young 
lady. Miss Martin, sir, ’as the back room. Miss Rosy ’ve changed, 
sir. She likes the front room best, sir, — she does. It ’s more 
airy-like.’ (With a twist of the jaw, and an indescribable tone.) 

“ ‘ Oh,’ I said. 

“ ‘ Miss Martin ’s a friend of Miss ’Owlet’s, sir. But I don’t 
know anything about her ’istory, — nothing about her ’istory, sir.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,’ I said again. And then : ‘ You will give her that when 
she comes in, Mrs. Smith ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir ; I ’ll be sure I will, sir.’ 

“ ‘ Thank you,’ I said. ‘ Good-evening.’ 

“ ‘ Good-evening, sir. I ’ll be sure to give it her.’ 

“ The old she-devil ! ” 

The next entry is five days later: — 

“ Rosy, not seeing fit to write to me as I asked her (I don’t 
quite know what I expected her to write), I went to No. 3 again 
yesterday. She had just gone out. I was a little angered (hav- 
ing a most ridiculous idea that she had done it on purpose), 
scrawled her another note, ‘ Why had n’t she written to me? If 
she would only tell me some fixed hour, I would be happy to 
come and see her,’ etc., gave it to Mrs. Smith, as servile as usual, 
and then went for a long walk. Half round Regent’s Park, up 
Primrose Hill once more, and then back to Dunraven Place. It 
was all strangely dim to me, this walk over the old land.” 

After my afternoon’s walk to-day, I found a letter from 
Rosy waiting me. 

Dear Mr. Leicester, — I was very happy to see you had 
not forgotten me. I am very sorry that I was out when you 

11 


162 


A Child of the Age. 

called on me the two times. I hope you are quite well, and have 
enjoyed yourself in Paris. Minnie is quite well, and I am quite 
well. And I have not forgotten the Swallow Song. 

Yours truly, llosY How'LET. 

P S. — I shall be in to-morrow night early by eight. If you 
care to go a walk with me then, I shall be very happy to go a 
walk with you. I hope you have not forgotten Minnie. 

Yours truly. Rosy H owlet 

(Rosebud). 

The journal follows: — 

“ The work is much easier now, though not particularly inter- 
esting. Brooke, I must say, seems to have taken a good deal 
more pains over his own particular mania than over his friend’s. 
Great parts of this second journal are continuous narrative that, 
thank God, require nothing on our part. Strachan thinks my 
old friends, Parker, Innes, & Co., will be the best publishers to 
send it to when it’s done. Here is a copy of my preface. But I 
can’t trouble to do it now. I only said that all the credit of the 
editing of the book was due to Strachan, that I had only, etc., 
etc., etc. There was nothing else to be said. 

“ He calculates finishing it by about the middle of July. Oh, 
Destiny 1 ” 


IV. 

The next day, after lunch, I went for a walk to Hamp- 
stead, and wandered about there, my thoughts alternating 
between the beautiful sweet nature about me and the past 
days of my first London weeks, till half-past six. Then I 
remembered that Rosy would be waiting for me at eight. 
It used to take me something under an hour to get from 
Maitland Street to Hampstead. It was now half-past six. 
What to do with myself for an hour? — from seven to 
eight, that was. Then my thoughts turned off in memory, 
— memory of the many times I had come marching along 
this very pavement in those first London days, whose 


1G3 


A Child of the Age. 

second half was an age of weariness and woe. Here was 
the very corner at which I stood that dreary day. Was it 
all a dream? “ I stand still here to-day,” I said to myself, 
“ as I stood still here that day, and look at the brown 
cracked concrete of the low wall and the black sooty rails 
that top it. The windows are lampless, too, as they were 
when I first stood still here. Will the left one light up 
suddenly, too, as it did then? No, lampless yet. Who 
lives here? God knows! And yet, foolish though it be, 
will not the thought occur again, “ Is it nothing to you, 
all ye who pass by, my weariness and my woe? ” Here I 
put my hand on the nearer cemented gate-post, brown and 
cracked like the low wall, and think of the figure that 
leaned against it in that dreary rain of half-darkness when 
my body seemed all bloodless, and the girl hurried by me 
with her huddled-up dress and umbrella spread over her. 
I see her now, — her quick glance, and that hurry by; the 
devil that rose in me — ” 

The door above opened, and an old lady came out and, 
looking at me through the spectacles on her elevated nose, 
asked, — 

“ Do you want anything, young man ? ” 

I took off my hat, and held it off. 

“ Nothing,” I said, “ madam, 1 thank you. I hope my 
stopping a moment to examine your gate-post has not 
troubled you. I see that the cement is cracked and peel- 
ing off. Now I am the patentee of a- cement which is 
warranted — ” 

“No,” she said, sharply, looking at me over the specta- 
cles of her depressed nose, “ I don’t want any of your 
cement, young man. Gooc?-day ! ” 

And was in, and. viewing me suspiciously through the 
glass panel of the closed door. If I had not been afraid 
of disturbing her feelings, I should have given a shout. 
As it was, I repressed the shout, and marched off quickly, 
laughing to myself. 


164 


A Child of the Age. 

It was a little past seven when I reached the canal bridge 
at the bottom of Maida Vale. I stayed a little there, look- 
ing at the flowers, finally buying a rose, and carrying it 
off with me. This I took to No. 3, and inquired of Mrs. 
Smith if Miss Howlet was in ? She was n’t, as I expected. 
I left the rose, and went for a prowl about the streets. 

All at once I found myself looking at the Marble Arch 
clock, by which it was five minutes past eight. Away I 
went, up the Edgware Road, and was marching along at 
full speed, a little past Praed Street, on the right side, 
when, passing before a gas-flaming fruiterer’s, my eye took 
in a girl’s form, and by the time I had gone five or six 
yards, my heart was up in my throat at the sudden thouglit 
of — Rosy! I turned back at once. We met face to face, 
she smiling up into mine, I looking with a strange grave- 
iiess into hers. 

“ Well,” she said, “ you were in a hurry! ” 

We were walking on together, I taking one stride to 
her two. It seemed to me remarkable, somehow, this 
meeting. We had not shaken hands. I did not know 
what to say. We walked on together for a little, in 
silence. Then I began, — 

“ I am very glad to see you; and I hope you are well. 
If you have taken walks, as you told me you would, then 
I am sure you are better than you were when I left you.” 

We talked of general things that did not interest me or, 
I think, her much, till we came to the corner of Maitland 
Street. Then ensued questions and explanations, and, in 
about five minutes. Rosy returned from her visit to No. 3, 
full of the beautiful rose I had given her. 

“ Beautiful rose ? ” I said. “ . . . How do you know I 
gave it you 1 ” 

“ Because,” she answered, “ who else would? ” 

She was ready for the walk now. We set off at once, 
in a half-mechanical way. Park-wards, beginning to talk 
like two children. 


A Child of the Age. 


165 


All at once, — 

“ Here your locket,” she said, taking it from inside 
her coat, and holding it out, small and round and silver. 

“ Nay, yours,” 1 said. “ Not mine.” 

“ You gave it me, though.” 

“ I did. That made it yours.” 

“ But it was yours before that, or how could you have 
given it me?” 

I acquiesced, with the reflection that Adam must have 
had some trouble to get an authentic account of the eating 
of the historic apple. 

“ What are you laughing at? ” said Rosy. 

“Have you forgotten the ‘ Swallow Song ’ ? ” 

“ Forgotten it? Oh, my gracious, no ! — 

‘ She comes, she comes, the swallow, 
bringing beautiful hours, 
beautiful seasons, 
white on her — ’ 

What are you laughing at? ” 

It was no wonder she asked. Peal after peal of laughter, 
quenchless, re-echoing, came from me. The more I tried 
to stop it, the more it came. At last I stood still, ex- 
hausted, with my hands on my hips. But a glimpse of 
her face was enough to generate a fit of laughter as violent 
as the first. 

We went on together, somehow or other, I still shaking 
with this second fit, she solemn to a degree. All at once 
it struck me that she was a little afraid I was mad. And 
then came the task of appeasing her outraged sense of dig- 
nity. I was sorry, I said, to have laughed in this way. I 
explained that what had made me begin was the way she 
scampered over the “ Swallow Song” . . . and so on. 

Her outraged sense of dignity took a good deal of ap- 
peasing, but I managed it in the end. Nay, I pleaded so 
hard that I obtained from her a repetition of the “ Swallow 


166 


A Child of the Age. 

Song,” as we sat on that seat, not far from the top of Prim- 
rose Hill, which I knew so well, so well, and she too 
remembered, perliaps. 

We parted at the door of No. 3 at about eleven. 

As I marched away, down the Edgware Road, I went 
through the evening 1 had spent with her, ending at her 
grave bow of the head as I went back from her at the 
door, with my hat down in my hand; but, going across tlie 
Park, other thoughts came to me, and I had lost sight of 
the evening 1 had spent with her when I reached home. 

Here the journal has a single entry: — 

Oh, Claire, Claire, that we should have met here in the time 
of eternity, and so parted ! Claire, Claire ! Oh, it is a vile devil’s 
earth, and good is only in the slave 1 To have held thee in my 
arms, and, with my eyes in thine, to have kissed thee once, and 
died ! Death were sweet so. But it is useless to think. This 
city is a market where souls are pledged for bodies, and bodies 
for souls ; and wealth buys all. I will go out from it. Useless to 
think, useless to think ! ” 

It was a few days after this that Rosy and I went our 
second evening walk together. There is no allusion to it 
in the journal, and as I was, during most of it, in more 
or less of a half-dreamy, half-abstracted state, I cannot 
remember much of what we said. That walk was not 
what might be called a success. We went up to the top 
of Primrose Hill again, and I snutfed in the breeze, and 
was somewhat revived; but (it had been raining heavily 
earlier in the day) that made me appreciate how stickily 
muddy it was going down, and I was forthwith driven 
into a state of utter saplessness and disgust. Rosy mocked 
at me as well as she could, but I took no heed. Finally 
she declared she would n’t walk with me any more. (This 
was half-way down the St. John’s Wood Road.) I 
acquiesced. We stood still, I looking in front of me at 


167 


A Child of the Age. 

nothing in particular, not thinking of offering my hand. 
Then she turned and walked away. I did not look at her. 
When she had got some twenty yards, I looked at her with 
a comic smile, sighed, hit my iron-tipped stick-end straight 
on the pavement, said a little wearily, “ Oh, dear,” and 
went with large strides after her. 

I soon caught her up, and we walked on, side by side, 
in silence, till I observed, — 

“ I Til sorry I was rude — if I was rude.” 

“Then you were rude, then! ” said Rosy, tossing her 
head a little. 

“Rudeness implies deliberation,” I said. “Now the 
best definition of sin is, — the deliberately doing anything 
that may harm any one else. Thus, it is sin to buy a 
pistol, intending to kill, and then absolutely killing, a 
man ; or, to ruin your body by excess, intending to beget, 
and then absolutely begetting, children. ” 

“ You talk great stuff! ” said Rosy. 

“Dear child,” I answered, “I intended you to apply 
my definition of sin to the point at issue, — my rudeness 
or uiirudeness. But this, like so many good intentions, 
has gone to the artificial protection of infernal causeways.” 

Rosy vouchsafed no reply. 

I proceeded: 

“ Well, be that as it may, considering the inability of 
the feminine intellect to comprehend anything of subtle 
ill the matter of metaphysical psychology, — or anything 
else you like, — I shall proceed to admit that I was rude, 
and apologize accordingly.” 

“ I never asked you to apologize,” she said. 

“ I never said that you did, my dear — well, something 
or other.” 

“ You ’re very aggravating to-night, that ’s what you 
are! ” 

“ Oh, Polyphemus and Abracadabra, did you ever hear 
such a libel as that? ” 


168 


A Child of the Age. 

Rosy began to hum a tune, shortly and defiantly. 

After a little, I said, — 

“ Lady, it seemeth unto mine uncultured ear that thou 
warblest the melody of which men say the venerable 
vaccine one rendered up the ghost. Now — ” 

“You’re very cruel!” she suddenly sobbed; “and I 
hate you. Why do you go on at me like that 
(The rest inarticulate.) 

“ God bless our souls! ” cried I, standing still, “ if — ” 
And I proceeded, in a brotherly way, to comfort her. And 
so at last got her, in a rather limp state, to No. 3, where 
we said a final good-night, after I had promised to write 
and tell her when I could get time to go for another walk. 

If it had not been for my recalling friend Horace to the 
effect that Dulce est desipere in locof I should have 
been in a most disconsolate humor going home. As it 
was, I could not help laughing at the memory of my fan- 
tastic squabble. 

The next entry in the journal is a record of my having 
seen, or thought I had seen, at a theatre, the girl of the 
nuts, her who struck me so on the night of my interview 
with Colonel James (she was playing a second part in a 
“realistic drama,” and not playing it badly, it seemed to 
me). 

“ I was with the Strachans in a box made for two people to 
see comfortably in, and three others to be as miserable as they 
disliked. I asked the Professor, when we two went out for a 
stroll in the passages during an entr’acte, if he had seen her before, 
and he said that he had not. 

“ I should like to know her. She might marry me, perhaps, 
and then I should be properly wretched for the rest of my life, — 
if I did n’t murder her or she me before the honeymoon was over. 
Well, the original expression holds all right, even then. I 
would n’t much mind her murdering me, if I was only sure she M 
be hanged afterwards. I have thoughts of proposing to Connie. 
She is a sweet little cocotte, only wanting development. But it 


169 


A Child of the Age. 

would be better fun to marry Isabel, and see what could be done 
in the way of ruffling her ‘ grave sweetness ’ a little. — I ’ll stop 
here.” 

My feeling towards the Book was, at the end, nothing 
short of positive loathing. Strachan, I think, perceived 
this, for he did all he could to lighten ray share of the 
work; and I accepted his doing so without remark. I re- 
member his asking me one morning if I had n’t been a 
little out of sorts of late, and my answering that my bowels 
were not as they used to be, and that I feared I had 
trichinosis. I don’t know what he thought of my answer. 
He said nothing. 

Late on in June is the next entry in the journal: — 

“ Last night. — 

“ Something making me come back quickly from the corner of 
the street, 1 found that she had not opened the door with her key 
yet, or even taken the key out of her pocket, but was standing 
watching me seriously. 1 took off my hat, and stepped close to 
her with it in my hand. The moon was shining clear. Neither 
of us spoke. We looked into one another’s eyes. At last : 
‘ What made you such a serious Rosebud to-night ? ’ I said. 

“ She sighed softly : ‘ . I don’t know . . .’ 

“ ‘ Good-night, Rosy.’ 

“ ‘ Good-night.’ 

“ ‘ Good-night ? ’ turning, I repeated to myself, and put on my 
hat, and strode away. . . . Round the corner, I drew a breath of 
relief. — That was temptation. 1 will not see that child again.’ ” 


CHAPTER IV. 


I. 

TT was four days after this, a Wednesday, as I see, that I 
^ awoke at about half-past eight in the morning, and 
found that there was a letter with ray cup of tea. After a 
while I summoned up sufficient energy to pull the letter 
somehow from the table on to the bed, and then must have 
fallen off into a doze again; for I remember that the writing 
of the envelope, that must have been just under my half- 
closed eyes, was wound with some other writing, in and 
out of a fantastic sort of a dream-space, from which I sud- 
denly started, with the recognition that the letter was 
Rayne’s. 

With all my soul in my eyes I stared at it. A large 
white glaring envelope with 

“B. Leicester, Esq., 

“ Glastonbury School, 

“ Glastonbury.” 

in Rayne^s hand, in the middle, the last three words lined 
through , and below, in a thin scrawly hand : — 

“5 Dunraven Place, 

“ Piccadilly, 

“ London.” 

These details realized, I took the envelope, ripped it up 
at the back, produced the thick, white, folded double sheet 
inside, and opened it. This is something like what I 
read : — 


171 


A Child of the Age. 

22 Balmoral Street, W. 

My dear Bertram, — We are in London for a short time — 
three or four weeks — before going north to spend the summer at 
Kirkory, my husband’s family seat, or I should say home. I have 
wondered a little at hearing nothing from you. You are, at the 
least, two letters in my debt. I do not even know where you 
are, and address this at random. I need not say, dear Bertram, 
how pleased ! should be to see you again, but 1 am afraid you 
have quite forgotten me. Why, it is — How long is it since you 
last wrote to me ? I last heard from you at Montenotte in the 
autumn of — How long ago is that ? You ought to be ashamed to 
think. 

But here is time and space and patience all exhausted. I must 
end, as usual, in a hurry. Write to me and tell me what you are 
doing. You know that, if for no other reason than because you 
were loved by what I loved best in the world, you are and always 
must be dear to me ; and so let me write myself down as being 
what, I trust, I always shall be, 

Your friend, 

Kayne Gwatkin. 

I lay still for a time, and thought about what I had read, 
and then re-read it, and thought of the past that concerned 
all this strange present, and of my whole life. And so at 
last I got up and went to my small polished-oak box (a 
small box in which I kept certain things that were, or had 
once seemed, precious to me), and, having opened it, found 
a letter, which began : — 

“My dear Bertram, — It is a wet and tempestuous after- 
noon, and therefore I consider it a fitting occasion to answer your 
long and with difficulty decipherable epistle.” 

Through this letter I glanced, till I came to words that 
stopped my glancing, and steadied it; — 

“ . . . Rather a tempest going on outside, and so I am going 
to try to dodge my dear old daddy and Sir James, and get out 
my boat and enjoy it. By tlie-bye, I bad forgotten to tell you 


172 


A Child of the Age. 

that an old friend of ours, Sir James Gwatkin, lias been staying 
with us this last week. He is a most amusing mondain en vil- 
legiature^ with a marvellous French and Italian accent, and alto- 
gether a very amusing companion to the father, and myself at 
times. He knows what seems to me a great deal about . . 

And I folded up the letter, and put it into the box, and 
re-locked the box, went back to bed, and lay thinking for 
another half-hour, when I got up and dressed. 

At breakfast 1 reconsidered the matter. 

The news amounted to this: Eayne had married the 
amusing mondain en vilUgiature, and was here, in Lon- 
don, for a short time, — three weeks, or so, — before going 
north to spend the summer at Kirkory, — her husband’s 
family seat or home. Where was Mr. Cholmeley ? 

I started. 

“ Dead!” 

“ That could not he. . . . And yet — ” I took out her 
letter and considered it. “‘You know that — if for no 
other reason than because you were loved by what I loved 
best — ’ (Nay, that may be nothing; or only mean that 
she loves her husband best. And there is no black edge 
on this white sheet) ‘by what I loved best in the world — 
you are, and always must be, dear to me, and so let me 
write myself down as being, etc., etc.’ ” 

All at once I exclaimed, — 

“ She ought n’t to have married that man! ” 

“ . . . Why ? ” asked the faint voice of the air and the 
room. 

I answered to myself, “ I wish she hadn’t.” 

“ . . . Why ? ” said the same faint voice. 

I considered a few moments, and then rose, a little 
viciously. Some of the viciousness was expended in the 
sharp putting of my chair directly in front of my plate, 
the rest in my casting myself into the armchair in the win- 
dow, my hands at my mouth, scraping my lower lip with 
my upper teeth. 


173 


A Child of the Age. 

Then, “ What is the matter with me? ” I said to myself. 
And, after a pause, “I don’t know! Is there anything, 
then, in the whole world would make me happy? I don’t 
know. I don’t think so. I’m just weary of it all! What 
of that new soul’s life of mine, produced before Starkie, 
and believed in then? What have I done? What shall I 
do ? What do I believe in ? What do I doubt about ? — 
Doubt about? Everything, — even doubt!” I let my 
thoughts rest for a moment. 

Then once more : — 

“ If I only knew something! If I only loved something! 
Oh, is there not a woman in the whole wide world wlio 
would take me as I am, and help me to be what I want to 
be? A woman — to save me? Oh, God, God, God, God, 

I would I had never been born! Nay, is it not strange 
that, in an hour of weakness like this, the only thing 
I cry out to for help is what I have always thought I 
despised as being itself incarnate weakness, — woman! I 
don’t know what ’s the matter with me. I ’m not myself. 
Virtue is gone out of me. This must be a passing humor. 
I shall be strong again, as I used to be. Or was it that I 
did not know my weakness? ... I don’t know! ” A com- 
plete sense of loneliness and purposelessness seemed sud- 
denly to grow like a great gray-cut chasm in me. I could 
struggle no more to find out what was the matter with 
me. I turned and let the current take me where it would. 

From that depth of weariness I raised myself a little to 
take up a book off the table beside me, and read it. It 
was no good staying stretched on the bottom of that dark 
submarinity in that way. Better kill myself at once; and 
that most certainly I would not do. . . . Why not? I was 
afraid of death ? I did n’t know. I had not thought about 
it. I would not think about it. A piano-organ was 
playing outside. I looked out into the sunshiny day ; for 
some little of the sunshine had entered me even then. 


174 


A Child of the Age. 

I would go out for a walk. Nay, I would go and see where 
Eayne lived. Why not? 

Away I went, and out for my walk, — out and away to 
beautiful summer Hampstead, fresh and green from tlie 
late showers, in the soft lights of the early day. I did not 
tliink much of Rayne. I do not remember what I thought 
of : probably of hundreds of unconnected things, passing in 
a fairy-procession in the yellow-gold light before my eyes. 
I wandered about, happily, till about one o’clock, when 
hunger made itself perceptible, and I went off in the pur- 
suit of bread and fruit and milk. Followed a Pythago- 
rean feast on the grass, with delightful half-dreams, as in 
the old time, till it occurred to me to return home and 
read. Accordingly, after a little trifling with resolution, 
in the shape of dawdling about in hollows, looking at a 
small stream’s meandering water, or the serried grasses and 
the earth, I fairly set off. 

After a little, it occurred to me again to go and take a 
look at Rayne’s house. So I asked the next policeman I 
saw where Balmoral Street was, and learned that it was on 
tliis side of the Park, and, more particularly, close by 
Lancaster Gate, for which I had better ask. That was all 
I wanted at present. I set off again, and was in Maida 
Vale before I was aware of it. I had no idea of going to 
see Rayne to-day ; I only wished to look at the house. 

I went on seriously enough, and began to think about 
Rayne, — where she was now, and what she was doing ? — 
somehow as if I had wondered thus about some other 
woman sometime and somewhere, till a faint, far-away 
tremulousness entered into me, and was perceived. 

I came sharply round an area-railed corner, and beheld 
... a low carriage, two horses, two footmen, the pillars of 
an exit into the street, a lady just out of the open door — 
passing to the top step — descending — Rayne! I stood 
still. 


175 


A Child of the Age. 

Some one followed. Kayne was on the pavement, mak- 
ing for the low carriage door, now held open. She stopped 
a moment, half turned. And the some one following was 
in her view and mine. It was the mondain en villegia- 
ture : I knew him at once. But Bayne’s face was all to 
me ; and yet I could not see it properly. Then our eyes 
met. 

Somehow or other I was moving to her with my hat in 
my hand, and she had said, “ Bertram ! ” and I had stood 
still again. 

Her face seemed to me, as it were worn, but filled with 
the light of steadfastness, and her eyes were quiet and 
deep. I had seen, not her face, but her face’s form, and, 
as it were the light of it, before, and this memory was on 
me now almost as in the dim low distance. I cannot say 
what either she said, or he, or I, for a little; not that I 
was bewildered by their presence and its thoughts within 
me, but that this memory of the likeness to the light of 
her face kept me from them. 

At last I had shaken hands with the mondain^ and she 
was sitting in the carriage, and we two, standing by the 
low open carriage-door, were talking together. 

“ It was, indeed, a surprise to see you in London, ” she 
was saying. “ I thought you were ... In fact, I did not 
know what to think, for you did not answer either of tlie 
letters I sent to you — ” 

“ Letters ? ” I said. “ I .received no letter from you, 
excepting this morning, since November — two years ago! ” 

“ I am a witness to the writing of at least two,” said he, 
looking at me, with a little smile round the corners of his 
mouth. 

“ Then you did not know — ” she said, “ and I had won- 
dered why you had not written to me. ...” 

“ That Mr. Cholmeley w^as dead — ” I said, softly, per- 
ceiving that her dress was of black. “ . . . I feared so, this 


176 A Child of the Age. 

morning.” What sorrow was in me for her was given in 
the words here. 

“ And where have you been all this while h ” she said, 
looking up, — “ if I may ask.” 

I bowed my head. 

“ I left Glastonbury last February. I was in London 
for a little, and then in Paris for a little, and then in 
London again, till now.” 

“ Perhaps, ” he said, “ Mr. Leicester would go with you ? 
You must have a great deal to say to one another after so 
long and so silent a separation ? ” I saw, or thought I saw, 
that she did not desire that I should go with her. Half- 
hesitation of hers was not enough to entice me. I said, — 

“ I am afraid that, even if Lady Gwatkins should be so 
kind as to think of allowing me to inflict my company 
upon lier, I should be unable to do so.” There was a sur- 
prise in this for him, perhaps for her; pleasure for me to 
find my nerves my own, and under the government of a 
Jupiter will in a serene heaven tliat might have seemed 
Olympus, if it hadn’t seemed like a monkey-house on its 
good behavior. She, with some few gentle low sentences, 
bowed to, or accepted my words’ meaning, and then it was 
time for her to be going, and I, drawing back with an 
apology to Sir James, for being in the way. 

Then came preliminaries of movement followed by move- 
ment, and her (and his) expressions of wish to see me again 
soon, and she (with him) had .passed away, while I stood 
bareheaded, watching her as she sat, till the corner wa^ 
rounded, and she was gone, and I alone with the streets and 
houses and all the dismal daytime. 

The next morning I found a note from her asking me to 
dine with them on Monday I smiled, and, when I had 
had breakfast, wrote an answering note of acceptance. 
Then Strachan came in and had a short talk with me. 
He had his doubts about the financial success of the Book, 


177 


A Child of the Age. 

considering that I wished to have illustrations. I was in 
an absent humor, and simply echoed his remark: Yes, I 
wished it to have illustrations, maps, and everything of 
that sort. 

“ Of course,” said he, " we have abundance of material, 
but I am rather inclined to doubt Brooke’s accuracy in 
these matters, and, in short ...” 

“ Has he taken it? ” asked I, — “ Parker, I mean.” 

“ No,” he said, “ he has n’t taken it — yet; but . . . Well, 
well, — we’ll talk about that later on. What are you 
going to do with yourself this morning? A walk; what 
do you say? I ’m just going to the Museum for half an 
hour or so, to look at some bones Davies has got hold of. 
Will you come ? ” 

“ I ’m very sorry,” I said; “hut I do my work in the 
mornings. I find that if I go out then, it ends in my 
doing no work at all.” 

We made talk of this sort while he was nearing the 
door, and at last had it a little open, when, — 

“ Did you ever, ” I said, “ hear of a man called Gwat- 
kin, — Sir James Gwatkin; a knight or a baronet, I don’t 
know which ? ” 

“ Hum, ” he said. “ Gwatkin ? Gwatkin ? I know the 
name, somehow. Oh, yes, I know him! I met him down 
at Oxford, at dinner at a don’s — two years ago. One of 
the Culture people. He has written a book about Michael- 
angelo. I remember him quite well now. The next day 
I stumbled upon him with Sir Horace Gildea — ” 

“ Horace Gildea ? ” said I. “ 1 was at school with him. 
Do you know him ? ” 

The Professor grimaced. 

“ Yes, a little. He did me the honor of seducing one 
of my maids.” 

I laughed. The Professor proceeded : — 

“ They ’re an odd lot, those Culture fellows. I don’t 
12 


178 


A Child of the Age. 

believe in them myself. A — (turning his eyes to mine) 
I hope they ’re not friends of yours, either of these two? 
If so, of course I — ” 

“Nay," said I, “they’re no friends of mine. I only 
wanted to know if you could tell me anything about 
Gwatkin — what books he ’d written, and that sort of thing. 
I happen to be dining at his house on Monday, and one 
likes to know something about one’s host’s particular line 
of thought, if he happens to have one.” 

“Ah, yes, just so, — yes, ” said the Professor, turning 
his eyes to and then away from mine. And on that we 
parted. 

I came back from the closed hall-door into the library, 
and went to the window, and stood looking out on the 
sunny day. A feeling of disgust at work rose in me. I 
sighed as I took down “ Antigone ” — the Greek play I was 
then reading — and lexicon and translation, and bundled 
myself into the easy-chair. Folly! and I knew it. None 
the less, I intended proving it once more. 

I had, last time, stopped just before a Chorus. I began 
on the Chorus now. Such a delightfully corrupt Chorus, 
and here (in two nice close-printed note columns) was 
what Hermann thought about the first lines, and then what 
somebody else thought, and then what the present editor 
thought, damn him! Finally I gave it up in disgust, got 
myself out of the easy-chair and the books into it, and 
stood looking, disconsolately, out of the window. Then 
the idea of taking a steamer down the fresh breezy river 
came to me, — to Greenwich, and go into the Park, or, first, 
to see .the Painted Chamber, and then for a walk over the 
Heath, to look at all the old schoolday places. Why not ? 

I went. It was a fair, sweet morning on the river, 
somehow as I suppose my Italy to be, with the air so pure, 
like wine that had no fieriness in it. I got out at Green- 
wich. I saw the Painted Chamber again, my heart mak- 


179 


A Child of the Age. 

ing its flutter felt as I passed along that colored gallery, 
where I had moved and dreamed in the dim sun-shot air 
of my boyhood. Ah, here was Nelson; and here! And 
here the sacred relics of him. How long, — how long 
ago it was since I stood looking at that pallid body, going 
with its heroic message of, “ England expects every man 
to do his duty,” up to . . . Where ? Bomewhere where tlie 
pallid bodies of heroes, who have fought the fight and done 
that duty well, are taken by soft hands and laid in tlie 
quiet of the Eternal Eields. And how I used to think 
tliat, in some simple way, although it seemed so vague and 
unreal, that body was my body, and that duty, well done, 
was my duty, and this small child here, with eyes half- 
brimmed with tears, so saw the final requiem of its own 
manhood, the seal of death with which it had sealed life, 
the fight well fought, the duty well done, and the pallid 
body taken by soft hands and laid in the quiet of tlie 
Eternal Fields. — “It is all changed now.” 

I turned from it, with the lump of tears in my tliroat, 
and went out into the air, and away. And I thought in 
this wise; that the dreams of boyhood are for boyhood, 
and are sweet, while the sights of manhood are for man- 
hood, and are bitter; and, that it is given to many to 
desire the well-fought fight, and the well-done duty, and 
the tender progress to the quiet of the Eternal Fields, but 
that few — the dwindling, sacred few — achieve to it; and 
that it is very hard to learn this simple lesson, that I, this 
me, this only real existence that I know in Space and Time 
and Life, is one of the many. 

As I slowly climbed up the hill, I noted the old tree in 
the middle of the path, against which I, dizzy and faint 
from the pernicious tobacco smoke inhaled in the shade of 
a gnarly oak while the small gentle deer fed round me, 
leaned full of the nausea of this wretchedness, resolute 
never to incur it again. Then I came in sight of the 


180 


A Child of the Age. 

haunted house, — darksome abode of awe and wonder. 
Then there was the field on the brow of which 1 had lain 
with Wallace, playing some game at “ chuck ” with clasp- 
knives, looking, at times, out over the dark, silver-twining 
Thames, and dusky, far-stretching London; till one un- 
lucky throw of his spiked my hand (here is the scar on my 
right thumb still), and how I insisted that there was not 
the end of chuck for the day! 

It is all changed now, — the field in which we played 
that game, or lying along the grass, talked as we ate sugared 
compounds or the satisfying parkin. Even the school is 
changed. The brass plate is gone from the gate. The 
house is freshly painted and enlarged, but empty. I see 
the top of the cherry-tree over the wall. 

I turned from it and went down the little lane, passing 
many remembered spots and things, and down the hill, 
and to the small boat pier. And as I stood I began to 
think of my future. There was something of Capua in my 
present case, — not so much bodily, as spiritual, Capua, — 
and yet I knew quite well that, at the best, it was not, in 
either case, a campaigning ground. It was time I took 
some steps towards the great object of supporting myself. 
Time? more than time! Why had I not thought of it 
before? This money of Brooke’sf — it was not mine. I 
had said that I would not take it. I had said that I could 
not devote myself to the Cause. Oh, Jupiter and the 
other immortals, I should think not! . . . And yet, why 
such a decided not ? Supposing I did devote myself ? 
Well? . . . No, it would not do; I don’t care about it. 
No, I won’t do that. No! I could n’t take and keep the 
money. . . . God knows it ’s a poor earth enough, — this 
earth; and where is belief in fire and brimstone being my 
reward fordoing this — or any thing? But that’s noth- 
ing. There is the tribunal of my soul, — that ideal of 
myself, by which I measure the actual of myself, and do 


181 


A Child of the Age. 

not care to find too great a difference between them. 
“ And yet,” I thought, standing up at the bow of the boat, 
and looking across the river, “ I could wish that I was 
sleeping the sleep of death, under the earth — at rest.” 


IT. 

When I awoke, on Monday morning, it was into a state 
of dreaminess, — the shadowy realm that is between the 
night’s dreams and the day’s. Rayne moved in it, with 
Claire and myself; but all so dim and bodiless that they 
could not be called by names whose counterparts were re- 
alities. They were not of the night’s dreams; they were 
not of the day’s, but emanations. Outside this shadowy 
realm there was some other emanation — some child’s — 
that was more of the earth than ours that were of this 
middle place, and it would have entered therein, but could 
not. And if this was a distress to any one, I could not 
tell , not even if it was to myself. — The end was that a 
start shot up through me, and I awoke fully. The green 
blinds covered the two large windows opposite my bed. 
A little light came in through them, and made a submar- 
ine atmosphere in the room. This I had known before. 
I sat up, then raised myself, till I could see myself in the 
large dressing-table mirror between the two green-blind- 
covered windows. That made me smile. 

After lunch I went out for a walk. 

The knowledge that whatever humor I went out in was 
sure to be different from the humor in which I returned 
held to me a momentary trouble now. For I was happy 
enough with the life of the morning, the mild sunny air 
and soft heaven, to wish for no better state in which to 
face the ordeal of to-night. ‘Ordeal? Ay; the faint 
tremor that comes to me at the thought is surely enough to 


182 


A Child of the Age. 

tell me that to-night will be an ordeal. Ordeal^ No; 
what 01x3 eal can there be? ... Of what am I thinking? 
I do not know .... Ay, that is the truth, — ‘ I do not 
know.’ And yet the sense of the unknown does not . . . 
What? — Was ever such confusion? No; not confusion. 
What then? I don’t know. It’s folly trying to be 
subtle.” I gave it up. 

That day was a day apart. A day apart is a day in 
which the past is pallid, the present pallid, the future a 
mist into which the earth-floor goes, not even unknown, — 
a day of feelings about feelings, of dreams about dreams. 

I came in about five. I had seen many things, known 
nothing. 

I felt and realized that I was hungry. I went to the top 
of the kitchen-stairs and called to Mrs. Herbert, asking if 
I could have some soup and rice. She agreed. I went 
into the study again, and stood in the window and looked 
out. I finished the soup and the rice. 

Dinner was at seven. I had not the intention of eating 
a dinner then; that was why I had eaten the soup and the 
rice. It was almost six now by the mantelpiece clock. I 
got up and rang. Then, “ But Mrs. Herbert,” I thought, 
“ tells me she has varicose veins.” So off I went, down 
the kitchen-stairs, and got a can of hot water for myself. 

Then I came up again, and began slowly to mount the 
hall staircase. 

As my heavy foot struck the soft carpet, and one or two 
of the rods sounded, I suddenly recalled my going up the 
staircase that last night of ours in London. After a few 
steps, I stopped and looked over the broad bannister, down 
upon the dark shiny table where my bed-candle was, and 
where two had used to be then. I went on again: the 
thought had occurred to me before this. Now I have 
always supposed that there would be something of ... of 
something or other, in living in a house, and alone, too. 


183 


A Child of the Age. 

where you had lived with some one that is dead. The 
sharp sound that struck your hearing would startle you? 
The lonely depth of the darkness, or the shadowiness, or 
the gloom would contain its spectre ? I cannot say. Death 
is so dim a thing, if it is anything at all, to me. What 
do you mean by death? You are not dead. I am not 
dead. Who is dead? And with the thought that this 
was rather ridiculous, I came into my bedroom with the 
hot-water can. The gas was low. 

I put down the can on the washing-stand, and went and 
turned up the gas. The room was all light. I took off 
my coat and threw it on to the bed. 

I washed slowly, thinking. There was a little of the 
tremulousness in me somewhere. I felt it for a moment, 
vaguely; but went on thinking, and forgot it. I put on 
first one and then the other dress-boot, with the small 
steel shoe-horn, and tied their laces tight. Then changed 
my trousers, and brushed my hair before the mirror. 
Then put on my white shirt, and found and fastened the 
studs, and my collar to the top stud. 

As I was looking for the glass-topped box that held the 
white ties, I thought the gas seemed burning low, and 
looked up at it. It was, confound it! I found the white 
tie-box in the shadow of the curtain, and took out a tie, 
and began to tie it. My fingers confused. At that 
instant everything in me contracted. I stared into the 
mirror. Brooke was looking over my right shoulder. 

My body was all a creeping thrill. I jerked round like 
one half-mad, with my fist tightly clenched, in some way, 
saying,— 

“ Devil! ” 

I would have beaten his pale, cold, corpse’s face with 
my hard fist. There was not anythingl — except I saw the 
shadow of the bed-top on the upper wall-paper. 

I paced up and down the room, looking to right and left. 


184 


A Child of the Age. 

“Assuredly,” I said aloud, in an observer’s way, “I 
will never believe in ghosts. It is far too easy to see 
one.” 

In a little I came back and finished my hanging tie. I 
had been startled. There was no mistake about that. If 
I had really believed that I should have seen him, I pon- 
dered, then I should have seen him. And yet I desired to 
strike him. And yet I did not believe in him, somehow. 

So, having turned down the gas, I came to the staircase- 
head, and began to descend. A certain something, not too 
far from fear, prompted the idea of a hand reaching on to 
me from behind. I desired to turn and look. My will 
overcame my desire. I descended slowly, step after step, 
in an actor’s way, rather. My heel sounded on the tes- 
sellated floor of the hall. My eye observed of the big 
clock that it was a quarter to seven. I had beaten that 
something not too far from fear. I had not looked either 
round or behind. 

I went to the coat-rack, took down my theatre-coat, felt 
my latch-key in my right pocket, and went to the door. 
Opened it, went out, and drew it to with a low clang. Yes, 
I left certain supersensual things behind in the house, — 
with Mrs. Herbert and the varicose veins. 

I laughed as I drew on my coat, shot open the gibus, 
and put it on my head. I had been startled. There was 
no mistake about that. But I was wide awake, now, 
surely. And I was going to dine at Sir James Gwatkin’s, 
with Bayne. I stood on the pavement-edge (in Piccadilly 
now), and called out, — 

“Hansom!" ’ 

I should be there with him, with her, in ten minutes — 
in all human probability. 

The hansom came up, and I got in, and gave the address 
— 22 Balmoral Street — through the opened trap to the 
man. We set off quickly, the horse — a small beast — 


185 


A Child of the Age. 

trotting. When we had gone a little way, I knocked up 
at the trap two or three times before the man opened it, 
the horse speed slackening. 

“ Go through the Park,” I said, — “ through the Park! ” 
He shut down the trap and the horse^s speed quickened 
again. The evening was light and cool, the sun hid be- 
hind thick horizon clouds. We turned through the gates 
into the Park. 

I bent forward a little, looking at the carriages and peo- 
ple that we passed. 

Then we swept by the Marble Arch into Oxford Street, 
and by the mouth of the Edgware Road, up which, some 
way up which, by a by-way to the left, lay in a small 
street, — Maitland Street, — a small house, No. 3. She 
would not be in yet. She would be still at her work, sit- 
ting sewing, probably. Should I ever see her again ? No, 
best not. Our paths of life went on in all but opposite 
directions. Poor child! “Alone in the world, as if no- 
body else belonged to her.” In a hundred years, perhaps 
fifty, perhaps less, it would all be as if it had never been! 

We drew up sharply. I looked out. It was the house 
all right. I threw open the flaps, and jumped on to the 
pavement, and went back and paid the man. Then 
ascended the steps, and knocked and rang, as the little 
brass plate bade, and waited. A footman opened the door 
and ushered me in. Sir James was coming along the pas- 
sage below the stairs, and saw me. He at once advanced, 
saying cordially, — 

“ Ah, Mr. Leicester, how do you do? ” 

We went upstairs together, slowly, I just a step behind 
him, then through a tall doorway with a deep-red velvet 
hanging, and along a room that was like a passage ; and then 
he had opened a door, and we were together in the soft light 
of the drawing-room, he just a step behind me. 

I at once saw Rayne and some other woman — a young 


186 


A Child of the Age. 

woman — seated close together under the pink-shaded can- 
dles; but my look was for Rayne’s face, not for her com- 
panion’s. How beautiful it was! How steadfast, and 
how sweet! And I thought that where I had before seen, 
as it were, the light of her face’s form was in the sad wist- 
ful face of a child whose body had been sold to an evil 
task-master, — Claire! And, at the thought, something of 
tearfulness rose in my heart and gathered to ray eyes ; for 
that sad, wistful child’s face had grown so bright for me, 
and mine so bright for her, and then we had been parted 
by the task-master, who was jealous of the soul of the 
body that he had bought, and I had never seen her again. 

“ Rayne,” I thought, “ would to God or Fate or Chance, 
or what it may be, that I had not found that light on your 
face, too! . . . Your hand is soft. ” 

We had been speaking to one another with low tones 
and movements, and now I was turned from Rayne, bow- 
ing to this young woman, — her companion, — whose name, 
his courteous voice had said, was Cholmeley, too. And as 
I looked at her seated there before and below me, I smiled. 

“ It is strange,” said 1, sinking, with the smile, into a 
chair by her, between her and Rayne, but nearer to her, 
— “ it is strange how much men and women have in com- 
mon, — I mean,” I said, leaning on the elbow next her, 
and looking at her, “ how much we have in common with 
one another.” 

“Yes?” she said, elevating her brows a little, being 
a little surprised, I supposed, and wondering what sort of 
strange masculinity she had come across. 

“I mean,” I said with narrowing eyes, “that — perhaps 
no one can live a life of his own. Suppose a man or a 
woman give themselves up to (say) love of money, as com- 
mon a ruling passion as any other, then that man or that 
woman will notice, if they only know how to, that their 
love of money generates, as it were, a subtle odor in their 


187 


A Child of the Age. 

souls, and they will recognize that subtle odor in the 
souls of others who have given themselves up to the same 
dominion. La destinee est une ! ” 

“I do not see how destiny is one,” said the young 
woman. 

“Here,” said I, “is the answer for you in eternal 
words : — 

We are what suu and winds and waters make us.’” 
do not see yet,” she said. 

“ We are all what we are made. Some of us are made 
by the sun, and some by the winds, and some by the 
waters, and some by them all. And that is how, is it 
not? we have so much in common with one another.” 

“ And you think,” said Rayne to me, with something of 
a smile, “that the children of the sun recognize one an- 
other, accordingly?” 

“ I suppose I do,” I said, now a little off the direct scent, 
— “that is, I think that any given passion, as a rule, 
expresses itself in the same way, in different people; and 
so one is constantly being struck by resemblances between 
people, and wondering wherein these resemblances lie. 
Am I not clear to you. Miss Cholmeley ? ” I asked. 

“ You are too subtle for me,” said the young woman. 
“ I am content to do my duty in that state of life — and the 
rest, and leave metaphysics to the choice spirits like you, 
and Sir James, and ” (turning her head) “ you, Rayne.” 

But it seemed to me that this young woman did not, for 
some reason, care to have matter of this sort talked now, 
and had quietly taken steps to stop it. 

We went down to dinner soon after, — Rayne and I, and 
Sir James and Miss Cholmeley; we two so far ahead that 
I could say to her, in an odd, unnatural way, that I did 
not know she had any relation . . . like Miss Cholmeley. 

“Miss Cholmondeley is no relation of mine,” she said. 


188 


A Child of the Age. 

quietly, as we passed through the dining-room door, “ our 
names are spelled differently.” 

And there the big liveried dolls stood by. 

“ C-h-o-l-m-o-n-d — ” said I, half to myself, the actor’s 
sense growing in me, — “ ah, I beg your pardon! ” 

The actor’s sense went on growing in me as we took our 
places, and culminated in my high slightly-frowning down- 
ward survey of my menu-card, — “ Soup, Turbot and Lob- 
ster Sauce, Quenelles.” “Damnation!” I said, under my 
breath. It was ludicrous! 

I shivered, tightened my jaws, and in an instant thought, 
“What foolery is this? I . . .” I might have been sitting, 
as I sat in my place that prize-giving day at Whittaker’s, 
waiting for my turn, with my lips rather dry, and every 
now and then shivering as if a draught came upon me from 
an opened door. But Blake was dead ; and Brooke was 
dead; and Mr. Cholmeley was dead. And I raised my 
eyes and beheld this vision of fair youthfulness, with dark- 
gold hair, whose floating outskirts were sunny, and deep 
slow eyes, and red lips ripe, and half-transparent teeth- 
tips, and soft sweet whiteness of the rounded throat whose 
thought was of the soft, sweet, white, cool body. And 
all the while they talked and ate from their plates, and I 
talked and ate from my plate, and the big, swift, quiet, 
liveried dolls moved hither and thither, and bent, minis- 
tering, to us. 

“ You do not take wine? ” he was saying. 

“Nay,” I was answering, “ I love wine, — wine that is 
yellow and foaming! ” I could not, or would not, or did 
not see any face but his, bending with a mask’s upward 
smile to me. 

“ But you refused to have any champagne just now ? ” 

“My dear Bayne,” she was saying, — the beautiful, 
voluptuous young woman was saying (Corisande is her 
name. It sounds like a cleft pomegranate), “ but you 
really cannot mean ...” 


189 


A Child of the Age. 

“ I did not notice it,” I said. “ I will have some, if 
you please.” 

And then, from a gold-papered bottle-mouth, out came 
the clear stream into the large, round, low glass, all foam- 
ing, but yellow, as I lifted it up and drank it. I sat there, 
filled with the actor’s sense, smiling and bending and 
smiling, and smiling and bending, and smiling and talk- 
ing, and in my deeper heart, in a sort of way defied this 
devilry. I knew what they were saying, I knew what I 
was saying, although I have forgotten it now. Once, or 
twice, or three or four times, I could have laughed out- 
riglit at all this, but restrained myself, with the feeling 
that I did well to restrain myself. I drank m-ore cham- 
pagne, and then fell into a somewhat dreamy state. 

They were talking of French literature, — a string of 
names and words scarcely comprehended by me; but there 
was light laughter in the yellowy air, and restrained sad- 
ness. There was no one in the room now but us. The 
footmen had all gone. I was slowly twirling my cham- 
pagne glass round, with my eyes on it, the light laugliter 
was foaming in the yellowy air, and the sadness almost 
withdrawn. 

Suddenly she — Eayne — rose. I started up. Corisande 
rose. Then they were moving round the table, and I was 
with my backward hand on the door-handle, and my face 
towards her. I had opened the door. She had passed 
out, — my lovely Eayne! The young woman was by me, 
— Corisande, — the cleft pomegranate, the sweet, soft 
harlot body. I crushed my right hand on the smootli 
hardness in it. I could have gripped that soft white 
throat just below the rounded half-shadow of the apple and 
throttled her; and, as I cast down the breathless, limp 
body, softer, but less sweet, the harlot body, been glad, 
with a quiet, half-fierce gladness. I closed the door softly 
upon her, and came back to my place. Sir James was 


190 


A Child of the Age. 

looking at something just before and below liis eyes, with 
the little smile round the corners of his mouth. I all hut 
loved him, for having a swift thought of “Arise, begone,” 
I had another of one sitting in a summer parlor, with the 
fat closing upon the blade. I, too, had a little smile round 
the corners of the mouth. 

We talked in a quiet, orderly way for a little, and then 
went upstairs together. 

Kayne was seated in her old place on the sofa, looking 
half-absently before her. Miss Cholmondeley lying back in 
the easy chair in which I had sat. She stopped speaking 
as we came in, looked up at us, or at Sir James, and smiled 
slightly. 

We talked in low, half-nonchalant tones. The night 
breeze bulged in the window-curtain behind Eayne and 
the sofa with a slight rustle. There seemed something 
of hushed, but withal, dreamy in the air; perhaps the 
quiet after the sunny wind-tempest of dinner-time. 

Then Sir James spoke, his words sounding somewhat as 
a return to one’s past humanity. 

“I have as good as promised Mr. Leicester, Corisande,” 
he said, “ that you would give us Ketsky’s setting of 
Vivian’s ‘Lullaby.’ I hope I did not take too much upon 
myself?” 

She raised her eyebrows a little, and the corners of her 
mouth, as she answered, — 

“But you forget that I only sang it to you the night 
before last. Bayne, I am sure, must be quite tired of the 
very name of Vivian by this time.” 

“ No,” she said, “ his story is too sad for one to be so 
soon tired of hearing his name. I should like to hear the 
‘Lullaby ’ again.” 

“ Vivian,” said Sir James, now addressing me, “ was an 
old school-fellow of mine, and I might add — friend.” 

I asked about Vivian. Sir James gave particulars of 
him. 


191 


A Child of the Age. 

“ He ran away from Eton, and came up to London, with 
the idea of achieving fame and fortune with his poetry. 
It is needless to say that he achieved neither. His parents 
were poor and obstinate, and he, — lie had the pride of 
Milton^s Satan. He died — starved, rather than ask help 
from any one. A volume of his poems has just been pub- 
lished, — this is it. You were reading it, Eayne? ” 

“ Yes,” she said; “ I was reading it this morning.” 

“ How old was he ? ” I asked. 

“ A mere boy,” he said, — “ eighteen or nineteen. Poor 
fellow I There is nothing really remarkable in any of his 
poems, as poems. Their chief interest lies in the fact of 
their having been written by one so young.” 

I still stood, thinking. Poor fellow! Nay, but I 
account him rich; for the strife of living and the terror of 
dying are for him both past and over now, and he is at 
rest. ” 

Miss Cholmondeley had passed into the other half of the 
drawing-room through the hanging lace-curtains, to where 
Sir James was standing fingering the music. Here was I, 
with my head thrown down like a meditative cow. I 
made a few steps towards Rayne, and standing before her, 
with my head half-bent, said something, or other, purpose- 
less, about the “ Lullaby ” and “ Vivian.” She answered 
with something of the same sort. I asked if she liked 
Ketsky’s music? She said she did not much; but she was 
afraid she didn’t altogether appreciate it. I said that Sir 
James had been talking about him to me, saying he was 
the subtlest of modern composers. Doubtless he had 
written many pieces that were very “ precious,” if not 
“ entirely ” so? She took no heed of my smile, but said 
that doubtless that was the reason (the subtleness was the 
reason) that she did not appreciate him. She only cared 
for simple music, and admitted that most classical music 
wearied her. But this “ Lullaby ” was not like any other 


192 


A Child of the Age. 

music of Retsky’s that she had heard. It was simple, 
and soft, and sweet. I was about to say that two of these 
were rather necessary qualities in a lullaby, especially if 
the baby was teething, when a flow of soft low notes 
came, and made me think better of it. Certainly Miss 
Cholmondeley knew how to play. 

I listened attentively. The soft low notes flowed on, 
flowed on, flowed on, but into their softness was gradually 
growing some other sound; more like an invasion of still 
dim water by rolling slaty-colored volumes than anything 
else I could then think of. I was the song’s now; my 
whole soul filled with it. A softer, lower place was heard, 
— softer, far away; lower, closer to the front of the picture 
that was in me, the place in which I felt was a presence, 
two presences. They were sleeping; or they were lying 
together in rest. Then one of them roused himself; for it 
was a man, or a boy with something of a man’s soul, — 
roused himself, and his voice began at first with unrecogniz- 
able words rolling over the low slaty glassiness of the water, 
and rolling about, till that first melody of soft, low flowing 
notes, all but filled with the rolling volumes, was hidden 
away. And another voice, a woman’s or a girl’s, with 
something of a woman’s soul, answered softly and sweetly. 
And the other voice answered softly and deeply, with the 
depth of passion. And the rolling, slaty-colored volumes 
of his first unrecognizable words, which had filled the 
space between this softer lower place and that first mingled 
melody, had filled it into peacefulness, were growing dis- 
turbed. The volumed column of that first mingled melody 
was passing down over the slaty glassiness towards this 
lower place. The voices rose in an unspeakable harmony 
together; but some of it was losing itself in the slaty- 
colored rolling volumes that came over the glassiness of 
the water of the now back-confused picture, and at last, 
half-dying, half-fading away, left the. whole picture lost in 


193 


A Child of the Age. 

the colored rolling volumes, from which now came short, 
sharp notes like the cracklings of connected and discon- 
nected electric lines, — crackle, crackle, crackle. And 
then the whole thing was whelmed in a full, slaty, silent 
flood. 

I awoke. 

“ You remember,” Sir James’s voice was saying, “ with 
what thought Keats closed his sweet, short, nightingale’s 
songl that wish to the bright star of steadfastness. There 
is just the difference between that death-song of Vivian’s, 
and this of Keats’s, that there was between Hylas and 
Narcissus.” 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Cholmondeley, by him with the 
music in her hand, and looking at it, “ the difference was 
between their deaths rather than their songs. Do you 
think Vivian would have said, ‘Lift me up — I am dying 
— I shall die easy.’ I don’t.” 

“No,” said Sir James, “he would not. He probably 
would have died in trying to lift himself up, as Emily 
Bronte did. But I was not prepared to have my words 
pressed home. I only meant to notice the two death-songs 
as being characteristic of the two singers, — the likeness 
and the difference. Vivian’s is a child’s dream of a sen- 
suous death, Keats’s, a man’s. Of course, any further 
comparison than the superficial thoughts suggested by the 
two death-songs would be ludicrous.” 

“Would it?” asked Miss Cholmondeley, looking up. 
“ Personally, I prefer Vivian’s.” 

I suddenly thought she was teasing him. I thought he 
was mocking Rayne and mocking me; so that that she- 
devil was as the laughter inside the laughter, — the aerial 
merriment that came from Comus under the low horizon 
clouds. Her song had bewitched me. 1 had been posi- 
tively arrayed against Rayne a moment ago. I was 
bewildered. 


13 


194 


A Child of the Age. 

I watched Sir James and Miss Cholmondeley cross into 
the piano-room again, talking about Ketsky’s conception of 
the “Lullaby.” I looked at Eayne. I sat down in the 
chair I had sat in before going down to dinner. The sen- 
sations of being in the chair unsettled my bewilderment. 
I spoke, scarcely expecting to hear my voice’s sounds. 

“ That was a wonderful song, — the ‘Lullaby.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Rayne, looking at me. 

Her look shot through me. I scarcely realized what it 
meant; I only felt it, — felt it, it seemed to me, in every 
part of my body and my soul. A mass of ideas rushed 
into my mind. My eyes flashed. 

We spoke some words together. I do not know what I 
said. I do not think she knew, what she said. Surely 
some feeling was in her as it was in me? There was a 
sense of mystery in this half-sympathy of ours. I went on 
speaking to her, not knowing what I said (We were in a 
low, soft melody that rose and fell, and rose and fell. 
We were alone), and not knowing what she said, or what 
she thought; but she knew, not what I said, but what I 
thought. My thoughts grew more distinct. 

“ Rayne, Rayne, I will not leave you! I will rend you 
from him. He shall not have you. Let him have his 
soft-bodied harlot there. You are the queen of my soul. ” 

I knew that they were together in the next room, and 
that she was playing that soft melody that rose and fell, 
and rose and fell. We were alone. There was something 
of the villain and his chance in my heart. I looked at 
her. Ay, she was dazed, — -a little dazed; not altogether. 
But how could I get her away ? Get her away ? I clenched 
my teeth. Take her by the hand, lead her out, away, 
away, away! 

“Rayne,” I said, — “Rayne, listen to me. It is the 
night of our lives, this. It is the night of all eternity for 
us. Come! quickly! ” (She was looking at me with dilated, 


195 


A Child of the Age. 

almost sightless eyes, opened, breathless mouth, heatless 
heart. I did not know where we were — in heaven, in 
hell, in the earth, with sea around us, in life, in death, in 
eternity.) 

“ Are you ill, Bertram? ” she said. “ What is the mat- 
ter ? ” I half threw myself hack in the chair with some- 
thing that partook of smile and laugh, and was neither 
smile nor laugh. She knew nothing. A fantasy, — a 
pure fantasy. 

Then,— 

“Nothing is the matter with me,” I said, “now. I 
suffer from my eyes, occasionally.” 1 rose. “ Eeally, I 
am afraid I must be saying good-night,” I said. “I — ” 
I looked at her. 

“ Whither away so fast ? ” I thought. “ Are you so 
sure, oh wiseacre, that she knew, — knows nothing? She 
knew! She knows!” Then I thought, “Shall I pass it 
over in silence? Shall I say anything of sorrow for it? 
No. I am not sorry for it! My dream? — My dream in 
Paris ? . . . ‘ I rose and crossed over the stone bridge, came 
to behind the carriage, and began climbing over it from 
the back. The lady turned, and, seeing me, put out her 
brown-gloved hand to me ; and then , when I would have 
caught and pressed it into my bosom, touched my chest 
with her finger-tips, the carriage moved. . . .^ ” 

For a moment a superstitious feeling all but possessed 
me. Then I cried to myself that, at this rate, I might as 
well become a clairvoyant, or an augurer, or a fool. 1 
looked at her again. (It was not more than four seconds, 
perhaps, since I had looked at her before.) 

I said, — 

“ I did wrong. I ask pardon.” 

I left her. I passed across the room, and through the 
door and down, and as one in a day-dream does the things 
that his body remembers hut his soul forgets, took hat and 
coat and passed out into the night. 


196 


A Child of the Age. 


I went on. 

Then the thought came, — What! was it done? Was 
it really done? Was I not in that room with them, and 
was not this a dream? 

iSTo, I answered to myself, it was no dream. I had left 
her. . . . What did it mean ? I had left her. I had left 
her. I had left her. I had left her. I had left her. Ay, I 
knew now. That woman was the woman of my heart and 
soul. My life had been lived for her since the day I had 
first dreamed of the dear girl-comrade. I had left her. 
The cross-road of my heart’s life and soul’s was reached. 
I had left her! 

I stopped, then went on again. 

“The malice of fate is infinite,” I said. “It is too 
late! ” 

And everywhere was dim. 


III. 

Everywhere was dim. It seemed as if all the rigging of 
my souks bark had turned to calcined semblances, that fell, 
as calcined semblances fall, making no noise. And then it 
seemed as if some semblance of myself wandered to and fro, 
and round about, in this strange dim place, and thought and 
thought, trying to regain its hue and presence of health, 
and could not. Snatches of the music of that lifeful past 
came to me and grew into deeper color, bringing hope of 
permanency, — only to be lost again in this strange dim 
place of noiseless falling calcined semblances. 

At last the great dim mass grew pale and receded; my 
own figure stood darker in tlie foreground. I began to 
tliink I had vaguely felt in the earlier part of my walk 
that my body was a little weary; perhaps it was but the 
action of the mind on it; for, now that the mind was in al- 


197 


A Child of the Age. 

most healthy activity again, the body was in sympathy with 
it. I went on with a springy step, and began whistling, 
turning my thought into the parallel though less distinct 
expression of music. 

And I had some enjoyment in the fine clear night, its 
air and its star-sown heaven. So at last I found myself in 
Trafalgar Square, where bells had been ringing and the air 
filled with an aerial swinging merriment; and the clear- 
soaring moon up above, and here and there stars. And one 
particular star twinkling through a slanting downward bank 
of gauzed clouds. Then I was in that road that I knew so 
well, that road by which I went to Hampstead. A little 
higher up on the left hand side was the concrete pillar ; the 
memory of which and its accompaniments made me smile, 
as, now moving on, I glanced at it. 

Then I stood looking in the Hampstead pool at innumer- 
ous small up-leaping crescents of moonlight, as from a rain of 
moonlight only turning to color as it struck. Sadness came 
to and grew of me, sadness almost of tears, thoughts of that 
past that was no more. 

I turned and set off homewards. The walking invigo- 
rated me. 

By the time I had got to Dunraven Place, I was almost 
happy. I let myself in, and entered the library with an 
elastic step. The lamp was turned low, casting a tender 
rose-tinted shadow into the air. My supper was laid out, 
fruits and bread. The scene, color, and scent of it all 
pleased me. The tender, rose-tinted, shadowy light, the 
mellowed silver of the knives and forks, the subdued color 
of the rich-bound books and costly ornaments around me. 
There were two letters on my plate. 

“Two letters'?” I thought. “Who the devil should 
write to me ? ” 

I lay back in the soft chair; reached to some grapes (I 
was a little hungry), and the plate with the letters on it: 


198 


A Child of the Age. 

put them on the table-cloth just under the lamp, and, eat- 
ing grapes, observed them. 

“ One blue, stiff, and with two stamps. A double weight 
of nonsense probably. The other — . . . Rosy! Yes, 
that ’s her handwriting. What does the child want ? I 
have not seen her for ...” (I took up her letter and 
looked closer at the address.) “ How long? Three weeks? 
Well, up you go on to the table-cloth! . . . Good! Scien- 
tific, quite! Miss Rosebud can wait a little. . . . And now 
for you, my mystery of blue paper double stamped. Who 
the devil are you, and what the devil do you want ? . . . 
You rip up tenaciously. . . . An enclosure. Two. What ’s 
this ? A check-book. And you, oh foreign-papered — ” A 
sudden suspense was in me before I knew of it. I opened 
the foreign-papered letter of four sheets, and looked at the 
end of it — “Colonel James!” Then I recognized the 
writing. I had the other letter opened in a moment (from 
my mother, perhaps! from my father!), and had glanced at 
it. “ Dead ! ” I glanced on : — 

. Sunday night . . . sympathy . . . last thing . . . spoke 
. . . name . . . reparation . . . heir ... in all something more 
than £1,000 . . . beg to enclose . . .” 

I looked up. 

“ Great God, ” I thought, “ what ’s this ? ” 

I read the letter: then re-read it, more slowly. This is 
what struck me in it. Colonel James had died on Saturday 
night: had left me his fortune, and a letter — this letter en- 
closed, of the sending of which to me was almost the last 
thing he had spoken. 

I took up the foreign-papered letter from my knee and 
began to skim it : — 

“ . . . I have, after some thought, concluded that . . . proper 
and seemly. . . . Your father and mother . . . the regiment 
stationed. . . . theatre in London . . . against the advice of 


199 


A Child of the Age. 

all . . . married. [Pause for a moment.] . . . Quartered 
. . . Cork . . . unhappiness owing to religious ... I . . . 
and the attentions of a ... Captain Melvil . . . exchanged 
. . . Guards ... of whom I frequently warned . . . but in 
vain . . . shortly ordered to Dungarvan and subsequently 
. . . Guernsey. I regret to have . . . attentions continued, and 
I was compelled to speak to your father . . . neglected warning, 
and . . . next day . . . scene with your mother, in which . . . 

common talk. I . . . could do no more, and remained. . . . 

One night . . . dining at mess with . . . walked home togeth 
. . . and . . . silence in the house. She was gone. I could not 
have imagined that anything could have made your father, a man 
naturally of the most praiseworthy self-restraint, and rendered 
doubly so by his steadfast relig ... sat down and cried like a 
child. I felt that I could not leave him in this condition, and 
accordingly, after having done all I could to comfort him by relig 
... so completely prostrated by the blow that I began to fear 
lest . . . sofa ; lay there with his face . . . groaning. . . . 

From that time . . . strange personal dislike to you . . . till 

at last . . . almost madness . . . considering the state of his 
health . . . did not, then, think it advisable . . . and as soon 
as you were able to bear the . . . village in Derbyshire. Most 
of the rest you know already ; for it has been your own life, I 
mean your education at Mr. Whittaker’s and subsequently at 
Glastonbury with Dr. Craven. . . . Your father . . . while you 
were with Mr. Whittaker . . . died . . . Scotland . . . leav- 
ing his aifairs in a . . . owing to his fatal confidence in. . . . 
It remains for me only to . . . [‘^ What ’s this?”] . . . Late one 
bleak, windy night last March, about a fortnight after I had seen 
you, coming from my club in Waterloo Place . . . Regent Street 
. . . lamp-post . . . unhappy woman pestered me, and ... [A 
low cry smothered itself in my throat, my eyes growing to the pa- 
per.] I turned, saying, ‘ Here is some money for you. For heaven's 
sake, go home and ... on such a night as this then 

suddenly caught me by the arm, and cried out : ‘Captain James, 
Captain James, don’t you know me? — I’m Isabel Leicester I 
fell against the lamp-post, and almost . . . The apparently re- 
liable news of her death, the . . . seemed like a horrible dream. 
At first I could not . . . then she told me that she had accident- 


200 


A Child of the Age. 


ally heard from a friend that he was dead, and had . . . and then 
asked about you. I answered nothing, for reasons which you 
will, I think, understand. But on her repeating her question, 
and adding that surely she had a right to know how you were, 
even if I refused to tell her where you were, I felt constrained 
to speak. I told her that you had been sent, first, to a small 
school, and subsequently to a public school, where you had, I 
believed, done satisfactorily : and then proceeded to inform her 
of the events that had led up to your interview with myself about 
a fortnight ago, blaming myself as much as I justly considered I 
could, and you also in the same manner. She listened to me very 
quietly, and, when I had concluded, asked me if I had any idea 
where you had gone to? 1 answered that I had none. Then, as 
she remained silently looking in front of her, and as I began to 
perceive that any further prolongation of the scene could only be 
very painful and quite useless to both of us, 1 ... [I suddenly 
slipped a paragraph, catching only the word “ money."] ... re- 
viled me and flung it into my face with mad curses . . . went 
away. After some moments’ thought, I decided that my duty 
. . . followed her . . . with a policeman I had happened to . . . 
to an arch under a railway-bridge, where the unhappy creature 
. . . approached and found that she was sunk in a stupor-like 
dream . . . and ultimately . . . hospital . . . comforts . . . 
died." 

Died. 

I stood up with the letter in my hanging hand. 

Nay, what was the meaning of all this? — I turned to 
the table. 

How many apples were there on that plate ? One, two, 
three, four, five, six. — I rent the letter into pieces. 

I strode across the room to the opened window; then 
looked back sharply, viciously, over my shoulder, almost 
expecting to see some one, some semi-human figure, with a 
cold smile on his cold face, behind me. Then the idea of 
Brooke, come from his grave to mock at me, seemed to 
cut my brain with a lash of madness. Then it was a loin- 
swathed, emaciate Christ that stood sardonically there in 


201 


A Child of the Age. 

the shadow. I leaped fiercely to the place and found that 
light and shade had tricked me. 

Tricked me 1 Everything had tricked me ! I was in a 
cave of trickery. 

Then the realization of what I had been reading came to 
me again, and with it the frantic suspicion of false play: 
I began thinking of my mother, taking my sufferings as 
being the shadow of hers, for she, too, surely had gone 
tlirough all that I had. Suddenly an idea came to me that 
almost made me shriek out. “ At last, passing somewhat 
quickly into an alley, I met one face to face under a pro- 
truding shadowed lamp. For a moment I stood breathless, 
with my eyes in the mad wolfishness and glitter of hers, 
and then, like a lightning-flash that fills the whole air, terror 
of her filled me quite. I leaped aside, and then passed her, 
plunged into a dark-covered way that was behind and beyond 
her, and hurried on, past ...” I began to laugh. 

Yes, yes, yes, I was the cub of the she-wolf that was 
driven by hunger into the public way to see what price her 
empty filthy carcass would bring! But she found no pur- 
chasers. Nor shall 1 1 

Then suddenly, turning to the open window, — 

“ Oh, you accursed city ! ” I cried, “ if T could sweep you 
off the earth with every . . . God ! ” I cried again, wheel- 
ing round convulsively with clenched fists, “ I have a few 
words to say to You, and then I have done. You have 
given me sight. The earth that You have madp and the 
creatures that You have put into it are foul. You have 
given me thought. You have no right, be You God a thou- 
sand times, to make Your creatures foul and then damn 
them for their foulness: You have no right to make them 
foul at all! You have given me love and hatred. With the 
love You have given me, I loathe You. With the hatred 
You have given me, I hate — I despise and scorn You! I 
am but a worm in the earth that is but an atom in Your 


202 


A Child of the Age. 

universe. But I stand here and scorn You ! I am in Your 
hand. You can do with me wliat You will — all except 
this: turn from my heart that scorn I have of You. Hear 
my last word to You, God. It is the last I will ever speak 
to You. Henceforth I endure Your acts in silence. If I 
have joy, I will not thank You for it. If I have grief, I 
Avill not curse You for it. Henceforth I am a stranger to 
You. If You are, You are to me as if You were not. If 
You are not — ” I smiled. 

“ Enough of this,” I said : “ perhaps something too much. 
I am sorry I railed. And yet the poor cuckold that we call 
soul must pour forth the lava of its discovered deception, or 
it would burst. I have done now, I think.” 

I looked up and saw the other letter lying on the table- 
cloth, where I had thrown it past my plate. This letter 
was Rosy’s. 

I stretched across to it : opened it ; and glanced into it : — 

... I waited for you on Friday night for an hour and a 
half. And 1 really did think you would come some time to me, 
or you would write and tell me why you had n’t come these three 
Fridays. And I am very sorry if you are angry with me for 
writeing to you to tell you of it ; but I think you must have for- 
goten that you told me that evening, that you would come again 
the next Friday, and I thought perhaps I had made a mistake 
about it, and that is why 1 wated these three Fridays, and I 
think you might have written to tell me why you could not 
come. 

IVIinnie is dead. A man hit her across the back with a stick 
Yesterday, Mrs. Smith says, when I was away, and it killed her. 
I cried about it ; which thing I have never had to do before quite 
like that. Please write to me and explain why you did not come 
these three Fridays, as you said you would. I hope you will 
please excuse this long letter and the writeing, but I don’t sup- 
pose you care enough to mind. 

1 am. Yours truly, 


Rosy Howlet. 


203 


A Child of the Age. 

I re-read some parts of it, and then threw it up onto 
tlie plate and rose and began to pace about the room, 
thinking. 

After a time I stopped at the open window. 

“ ‘ There is a budding morrow in midnight, ’ ” I said to 
myself. 

I took up the lawyer’s letter, and having folded, put it 
on the plate, and Colonel James’s letter, and Rosy’s, and put 
the check-book on the top. Then, standing thinking, I ate 
all the grapes, and drank a glassful of water, and gathered 
up what was on the plate, and went upstairs into my 
room. 

The gas was low as I had left it. I turned it up. I set 
about doing what I intended. I changed my clothes and 
boots quickly, put the papers I had brought up, together 
with my usual check-book and a pocket-book containing 
bank-notes to the value of twenty-five pounds or so, into 
my breast-coat-pocket, all the gold I had into my right 
waistcoat-pocket, and all the silver I had into my right 
trouser-pocket. I had a sudden thought of packing a port- 
manteau, or my old black hand-bag. No : I could n’t be 
troubled with it. I would get what was wanted on the 
way. 

Then I turned out the gas, went downstairs again, and 
wrote a short note to Mrs. Herbert, saying what I wished 
to be done in this matter. And as I sealed up the letter 
(force of habit, I suppose) I thought that it was lucky 
Rosy’s letter had come in this way. Perhaps I should not 
have been doing this if it had n’t. 

Luck favored me again : I lit upon a hansom at the end 
of the street. 1 told the man to drive up the Edgware 
Road, and I would tell him where to stop. 

The gas-lamps burned faintly. There was a hush in the 
place, broken every now and then by distant sounds of 
stirring life. We were going quickly. I sat thinking. 


204 


A Child of the Age. 

We were almost at the turning that has to be taken for 
Maitland Street. I thrust my hand out and waved. We 
came up a little, as it were, sideways to the pavement. I 
got out. How much should I give the man ? I stood with 
two fingers in my waistcoat-pocket, considering a sovereign 
and an order to wait here for me. Then I determined no, 
and took out some silver, and gave him five shillings. 

I went on alone to the corner of the turn that was to be 
taken for Maitland Street, and crossed over into the deeper 
shadow of the other side. The horse was wheeling round; 
the cab drove away with sounding hoof-strokes. I went 
on, but rather slowly. Then an idea came into my head 
to run as far as the corner of Maitland Street. I set off; 
came to the lamp-post, crossed over, knocked with strong 
knuckles at the door, and waited. 

No sound. 

I knocked again as before, but for longer. I listened. 
No sound. I knocked a third time. Nothing. This was 
foolery ! 

I went into the road, and bent down to pick up something 
to throw. There was nothing of the sort there. 

I gave up an idea of thrusting my finger down between 
the stone-blocks, to jerk out problematical pebbles, and went 
into Hill Street, and set about searching for something to 
throw. I could find nothing. I went on looking in the 
road, in the hope of seeing a mended place, whence I could 
take gravel. At last I found one, and picked up some. 

I returned. There was no sign of life in the house : no 
sign of life anywhere here apparently. Her head would be 
by the left-hand window. I threw up a pebble. It struck 
a pane, cracked it, I thought, and, falling on the pavement, 
bounded and rolled into the gutter. I made a step, picked 
it up, and, standing, threw again. Same result. But I 
did n’t look for the falling pebble ; I looked steadily at the 
window. Surely she was awake. 


205 


A Child of the Age. 

Now for a little soft earth! Up it went. 

I looked steadily at the window. 

No — yes! A movement: a movement of the blind. I 
stepped hack, and, taking off my hat, and turning a little 
sideways, so that she might if possible see something of my 
face, looked up as before. 

Another movement of the blind. It was, I thought, drawn 
aside a little. I held up my outstretched arms. 

All at once, I knew the blind ran up, heard a hasp 
strike, and the top half of the window came down. There 
was something white in the dark space that had been the 
top half of the window. I cried out, — 

“ Rosy, it’s me! — me! Come down and let me in.” 

“ O gracious ! ” said her dear voice, “ how you frightened 
me ! What ’s the matter ? ” 

“ Let me in ! let me in ! let me in ! ” I said , — 

“ ‘ Do thou roll forth a fruit-cake 
out of the rich house, 
and a beaker of wine 
and a basket of cheeses ; 
and wheat-bread the swallow 
and the pulse porridge 

does not reject. Say, shall I go away, or something receive ” 

Heaven only knew what the poor child thought of it all! 
I began laughing at the idea. Then, suddenly serious : 

“ Mrs. Smith is fast asleep, ” I said quietly, “ down here. 
I want to tell you something — - sometliing very important to 
us both. Will you come and let me in ? ” 

A pause, then : — 

Yes,” she said, “ I will come down.” 

Then the window was drawn up, and I stood waiting for 
some minutes. At last I heard her coming down the creak- 
ing stairs. A bolt was softly undone at the top of the door, 
a lock shot hack ; the door opened, and I was standing by 
her in the narrow passage. 


206 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Don’t make a noise, ” she said, “ or else you ’ll wake — ” 

“ ‘ The baby ? ’ ” I said. She had put on her dress. 

She closed the door softly. 

“ What ’s the matter 1 ” she asked. I was pleased by her 
quiet tone. 

“ Let ’s go upstairs, ” I said, “ and I ’ll tell you. ” 

We went up carefully ; she first, stopping once to tell 
me to be quiet, or Miss Martin would hear. My fickle 
thoughts that had become rather pallid (the trouble of going 
up so carefully, that is so slowly, and the hitting of my 
head against some damned beam or something), brought me 
into the shadowy room in no cheerful state. Why had not 
she lit a light? She was groping on the mantelpiece for 
the matches now. 

She found them, struck a light: and then there we were 
in the yellow full glare of the gas for a moment, before she 
turned it lower. I had not anything to say ready. 

At last ; — 

“ I am tired, ” I said. “ Will you sit down ? there — ” • 
(pointing to the foot of the bed), “ and I will sit here ” — 
(at the head where the bedclothes were drawn back). The 
child obeyed in silence. Although I did not look at her, 
I noticed her. Her hair was all disordered, and rather 
matted; her cheeks flushed with what I knew was a hot 
dry flush. 

T put my hat on the chair by me — the old cane-bottomed 
chair I knew (the same as of old, save that the hole in its 
bottom was grown larger). Then I said (she looking at 
me in a strange way all the time) : — 

“ Kosy , I have come to make an offer to you. I have 
committed a crime here, in London, to-night. I must bolt 
out of England at once. I have scarcely any money left — 
in fact, just enough to get out of the place with. I want 
to know will you come with me ? ” I heard her breath go 
suddenly sharply inwards, and stop for a moment. 


A Child of the Age. 207 

Looking at my booted toes shoving together on the carpet, 
I proceeded, — 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do — supposing I am 
not caught, that is. But I dare say I shall be able to turn 
my hand to something or other that will do to keep body 
and soul together, and I dare say you, supposing you would 
care to come with me, might do the same. It ’s not a very 
inviting prospect to offer any one — and there ’s worse to 
come yet. I don’t believe in marriage. You would have 
to come with me as my mistress. I might tire of you. 
You would have no guarantee but my word that I wouldn’t 
bolt from you there, just as I am bolting from justice now. 
You know the sort of creature I am,” I looked up at her. 

Then, in a moment, she was in my arms, kissing me, 
laughing, crying, kissing me over and over again, and I her, 
speaking unintelligible sentences, uttering unknown words. 
A thrill went through me — the same thrill, it seemed, that 
had gone through me that winter’s evening in the farm- 
house kitchen where Mary kissed me with her soft red 
lips, the same thrill that had gone through me when I saw 
Bayne standing there on the station platform, while I was 
carried away from her. 

I pressed her closely to me, my cheek against hers, the 
tears welling out of my eyes. The stubborn will seemed 
broken at last. But I was tired, tired in body and soul. 
Breathless as she was from my embrace, she yet strained me 
to her with strength, strained me to her when my embrace 
relaxed, held me when, all things turning and swimming, I 
would have fallen. In that place of confused and dreamy 
sensations, I felt her hold, and had some comfort in it. I 
think I moaned and muttered things scarcely intelligible to 
myself. At last I opened my eyes. She was smiling at me 
as a new-made mother might at her wakened child. For 
a moment I felt the pleasure of that hold and look. Then 
I loosed myself from her and said, — 


208 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Damn it, I must have been fainting.” 

She nodded her head at me in her old half-merry way. 

“ That ’s just what you did, then! ” 

“ Dear child, ” I said, getting up to my feet, and making 
some steps, “ I ’m a fool. Let me see. What did I say to 
you just now ? ” But, feeling a little dizzy, came back 
and sat down on the bed before I said any more. 

Then, looking at my booted toes shoving together on the 
carpet as before, I began, — 

“ We ’ve both, it seems, been making fools of ourselves, 
especially I. Now listen to me. Did you intend this to 
mean that you wanted to go with me abroad ? Yes or no ? ” 
“ Yes,” she said, “ yes! ” 

“ Did you understand what I told you about the crime 
I’d committed, and the rest of it? Did you understand 
it, — what it meant ? ” 

“ I don’t mind about it,” she said, “ one bit, so long as 
they don’t catch you. And I ’m sure they won’t ! ” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ It would be so cruel ! ” 

“ What would be so cruel ? ” 

“ Now that I ’ve got you, for them to take you straight 
away from me again! ” (She shook her head.) “ I ’m sure 
they won’t! I ’m sure they won’t ! ” 

Her tone of voice, almost fierce, made me laugh. 

“ Bosy, ” I said, “ I ’m too tired to spend an hour in 
asking you to consider what a serious question all this is. 
Do you understand that our life will be a hard one — 
perhaps a very hard one?” 

“ Yes, ” she said; “ I don’t mind one bit ! ” 

“ Do you understand that I won’t marry you — now or 
ever ? ” 

No answer. 

“ Ah, ” I said, “ You did n’t understand that ? You thought 
I was joking? I was not. I am not; I am in earnest. 


A Child of the Age. 209 

I will never marry you, if you come with me: never, O 
never! ” ^ 

I rose and stood before her, and looked at her looking 
fiercely at me. 

“Now,” I said, “answer me simply; but do not hurry. 
Keflect before you answer. Don’t be afraid of saying ‘ No.’ 
Believe I shall not break my heart if you say ‘ No.’ ” 

She looked down now, and seemed to be thinking. 
What of? Did she believe that I wouldn’t break my 
heart if she said “ No ? ” If that was her thought, I must 
answer it. 

“ This very night,” I said, “ I asked another woman to 
come with me, and she would n’t. You see the sort of man 
you have to deal with.” 

I waited. 

At last : — 

“ Yes,” she said in a low voice, “ I ’ll go with you.” 

“ You ’ll have a hard life of it with me — even supposing 
the life itself was n’t hard. You see the sort of man I am. 
I am a little mad. I care for nobody but myself. Then 
I ’m a terrible liar : you can believe nothing I say. I have 
told you bushels of lies to-night. ” 

She rose, and looked me in the face. 

“ I don’t he-lieve you ! ” she said. “ You ’re not selfish! 
you ’re not a liar! ” 

“ But I ’m quite mad. ” 

“ How can you talk like that? ” she cried out, “ You know 
I ’d go with you wherever you liked in the whole world ! 
You know I would ! ” 

“Very well,” I said, “very well.” I sat down on the 
bed almost exhausted. 

As I sat with my head bowed, looking at the carpet and 
not caring to struggle any more, she knelt down in front of me, 
looking into my face, and then put her arms up and round 
me. I opened my knees; she put herself between them. 

14 


210 A Child of the Age. 

I closed my eyes. My head nodded, and nodded, and 
nodded. * 

“ Ha! ” said I, waking with a start, “ what ’s the time? 
I mustn’t forget to wind up my watch.” I took it out. 
A quarter-past three. Time had gone quickly, 

“ Let me see, ” I said, “ What time ’s the morning mail to 
Paris ? . . . Can we get a cab here easily ? ” 

“Yes,” she said, “there’s a mews at the end of the 
street.” 

“ It ’ll be all right if we start by six, I ’m sure.” I was 
thinking what time it was when Brooke and I left Dunraven 
Place for the French mail. 

The end of it was that I lay down on the bed to rest 
myself for a few minutes, while she did something or other 
(1 did not notice what she said), and then I fell asleep. 
Then I was half-wakened by feeling some one bending over 
me, to kiss me on the lips; to which I objected, and moved 
my head, but the other lips came after mine, and almost 
caught them, despite a quick move back again. I awoke 
after that, and saw Posy standing by the door, and the 
room filled with light not the gaslight. 

“ Is it time to go ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, ” she said. 

I got up. •• , - 

“Now, what about the cab? Where is this mews place 
you told me about. Posy ? ” 

“ The cab ’s downstairs at the door waiting.” 

“ You did n’t go and get it, did you ? ” 

“ Yes, I got it! ” 

A pause. 

“ What ’s that ? ” I asked, looking at a bundle on the 
table. 

“ My things.” 

“ You need n’t take them, you know,” I said. 

“But—” 


211 


A Child of the Age. 

“ No; we ’ll get everything we want in Paris.” 

“But — ” 

“ There, now ! there, now ! ” said I, putting my arm 
round her, and getting her along, expostulating, to the door 
and opening it. “ Don’t talk any more about it ! It ’s no 
good talking about it ! Get along ! ” 

“ But — ” she said, turning at the top of the stairs. I 
put my hand on her mouth, whispering : 

“ You ’ll have Miss Martin up in a moment. Do you owe 
Mrs Smith anything 1 ” 

“No,” she said, “Hush!” 

She went down the dark stairs, I following her. Mrs. 
Smith was standing by her door. She made a sort of 
courtesy to me. 

“ Good-morning, sir, ” she said. 

“ Good-morning, ” I said. 

She had the door open for us in a moment. Posy went 
out quickly, and was into the cab (a hansom) , and I fol- 
lowed, without a further word or sign to the old devil. As 
1 was getting in, I told the man, “ Charing Cross,” over the 
roof, and then sank down beside her. 

“ I have had rather a hard day of it on the whole, ” I said. 

“ But why did you make me leave — ” 

I put my hand over her mouth. 

“But—” 

I pressed my hand closer. 

“ If, ” I said, “ it ’s your economical soul that ’s alarmed, 
know, my pippin, that there 's no need for it. I 'm not 
a forger. I ’m not a beggar. I am an atheist. I am a 
liar. I told you that I had told you bushels of lies to-night, 
or ratlier, this morning.” I took down my hand, adding: 

“Now don’t ask more than twenty questions at a time, 
and I will do my best to explain matters.” 

I looked at her, and seeing her pretty puzzled face, 
laughed, and gave her a kiss cideways. 


212 


A Child of the Age. 


“ You are mad! ” she said. 

“ I am ! ” I answered, “ Everybody ’s mad. And the 
maddest people of all are those that are most sane ! ” 


IV. 

Fortune favored our flitting. We arrived at Charing Cross 
in good time for the train. I took two first-class tickets, 
and tipped the guard heavily, for the privilege of having the 
compartment to ourselves. I lay back deep in my seat, with 
my feet up opposite me, full of thought, unobservant. Then 
I felt a hand steal into mine, and, looking up at a sweet, 
anxious face, smiled, and said : — 

“ Well, Rosy! Here we are, you see ! ” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ Here we are.” 

“ Are you sorry you came ? ” I asked. 

“No, no! Not sorry.” 

“ Glad then?” 

“ I would be — if you ’d speak to me ! ” 

I drew down her face and kissed the cheek, and laughed 
a little. 

Then she said : — 

“ What were you thinking about all this long time, that 
you did n't say anything to me ? ” 

“Well,” I said, “among other things, about where we 
were to go to.” 

“ Yes,” she said. 

I proceeded: — 

“ I think the best thing for us to do will be to get out at 
Calais; not go on to Paris. Suppose we went to some little 
seaside village in Brittany for a month or so ? It must bo 
very hot in Paris now.” 

“ I will do what you like, ” she said. 

“ Very well,” I said, “ we ’ll get out at Calais.” 


A Child of the Age. 


213 


We had a beautiful crossing, the sea like a mill-pond. 
Rosy was n’t sick, nor was I. Fortune still favored us. 

At Calais Ave got out, and 1 set about making inquiries as 
to the whereabouts of the desired little seaside village in 
Brittany. After many difficulties, that ended in — for me 
at any rate — complete weariness, I found out a place that 
seemed eligible, Pierlaix. 

In Pierlaix we arrived that evening, and found our Avay 
to an inn, where we entered, and I demanded two rooms for 
the night, and something to eat at once. After some trouble, 
that would have been amusing if it had not been so dreary 
to us who were tired out, we were shown two rooms, a bed. 
room and, as we thought, a sitting-room, which I accepted on 
the spot, and proceeded to iterate my demands for a bath in 
the morning and something to eat and drink at once. (We 
were in the sitting-room.) They left us. 

I opened the folding-windows wide, and stepped out onto 
the little balcony, into the noise of the sea and the coolness 
of the evening breeze from over it. As I leaned on the rail 
I felt Rosy at my side, and turned to her. Poor child, how 
pale and tired she looked ! 

“ Never mind, Rosebud, ” said I, putting my arm round 
her shoulders and smiling at her. “Keep your heart up! 
You ’ll be all right in the morning. I ’m afraid the sea 
disturbed your little stomach. Do you feel ill ? ” 

“ No,” she said, “ I ’m all right, thank you.” 

“ Then let ’s go up and wash ourselves. I feel filthy.” 

We went up into the bedroom together, and made some 
discoveries regarding the quantity of water here considered 
sufficient for the ablutions of two. However, this difficulty 
also was at last overcome; but Ave gave up the soap in 
despair. It was just after this that the fat hostess reap- 
peared Avith considerable complacency, producing a species 
of scrubbing-brush, as being, a coup sur, Avhat monsieur 
required. (All the English gentlemen had the habit of 
using it, she explained to the puzzled host beside her. ) 


214 


A Child of the Age. 

When they had gone away ; — 

“ I thought you knew French, ” said Kosy, a little pite- 
ously, “ What did she bring that scrubbing-brush up for ? ” 

Weary and dreary as I was, I exploded into laughter at 
this, and kept on at it till I fell exhausted backward onto 
the bed, and lay. From there, having rested a little, while 
Kosy was trying to wash her face in the bowl that did duty 
for a basin : — 

“ I was only trying, ” I said, “ to make them understand 
that I should like to have a tub in the morning. ” 

“I believe the whole hotel was on the stairs listening,” 
said Kosy, rather disgustedly. I went off into laitghter 
again. 

“ I don’t see what there ’s to laugh at, ” she said ; which 
made me continue even more than before, she drying her 
face and hands at the window, with dignity, 

I suddenly stopped. 

“It will be rather fun, ” I said, “ seeing us buying new 
clothes to-morrow ! You can’t expect me to do that for you, 
you know ! ” 

“ I shan’t, ” said she. 

“Very well, ” I answered, philosophically, “then. . . 

She was crying. I jumped up and came to her. 

“Ah, child, what’s the matter?”! said, taking her in 
my arms ; “ what is the matter ? ” 

“ It ’s very unkind of you, ” she sobbed, “ to go on like 
that at me, and you know it is.” 

“ Indeed,” I said, “ I ’m very sorry. I did n’t think you 
minded my fun. I was only joking. . . . There, there, 
now ! It ^s all right. Give us a kiss, and let ’s be friends 
again.” 

“ I ’m tired,” she said, wiping her eyes : “ and hungry.” 

I continued chattering to her, till I at last succeeded in 
making her cheerful, and in quite a happy humor we went 
down together into the sitting-room. But, her hunger 


215 


^ A 


Child of the Age. 


somewhat appeased by shrimps and fried sand-eels, the 
weariness once more began to acquire the ascendent. Be- 
fore we were half through the meal, the big brown eyes 
W'ere blinking fast and frequent, and the little head nodding 
downwards and suddenly starting up when it was approach- 
ing the table-cloth, at ever-shortening intervals. I per- 
suaded her to sit in the armchair in front of the window, so 
that “ she might look at the sea, since she did n’t care to eat 
any more,” while I finished the stewed fruit and three 
shrivelled apples. 

When I had peeled apple number two and cut it into 
pieces, I went round to have a look at her. She was fast 
asleep. 

I went back and ate the pieces, and then apple number 
three, thinking all the while, till I became quite incoherent 
in my ideas about things. The end of this was that I awoke 
with a start, and, having realized where I was and with 
whom, decided that bed was the best place for both of us. 
But when I came and looked at her breathing asleep, so 
pale and tired, I did not care to awaken her. And going, 
first opened: raiwi^left open the sitting-room door, and then 
the bedroom door, and returned, intending to carry her up 
to bed. The dear child let herself be lifted with no more 
trouble than few uneasy sounds and movements of her arms ; 
and then up with her I went, and laid her softly on the 
bed. She sighed, and sank into unruffled sleep again. I 
made her as comfortable as I could, and shut the door. 

Over the door there was a small window. The walls of 
the room were simply boards, polished. I went to the 
other end, opened the window, and leaned out. Below was 
a garden. I could hear, but not see, the sea. The evening 
breeze still blew softly and coolly. I gave a large long 
yawn, and bethought me of lying down. I took off my 
coat, putting it on the back of a chair, and came and lay 
down quietly beside her. I must have fallen asleep almost 
immediately. 


216 


A Child of the Age. 

When I awoke, the room was half-full of sunlight ; a bird 
was singing outside, and I saw K-osy, lying half a yard away, 
seriously looking at me. 

“ Good-morning, ” I said. 

“ Good-morning, ” she answered. 

“ . . .1 wonder what time it is ? ” 

I got out my watch and looked at it. — Half-past five. 

“ Stopped ? ” I said, “ . . . How long have you been 
awake ? ” 

“ Oh, a long time. ” 

“. . . I feel hungry.” 

“ What time is breakfast going to be ? ” 

“ God only knows — or the fat woman ? I don’t know 
what even the French for it is. Suppose I get up and see. ” 

I got up, and, feeling very dried and not a little dirty, 
pulled off my waistcoat and shirt, and entered upon the 
best course of ablutions possible with the basin and neither 
sponge nor soap. 

“ This is certain ,” I said, drying myself on the small 
towel, “ I never knew what it was to be without a sponge 
and soap before ! ” 

We talked a little about such things, till I was dressed. 
Then, on my way to go out, I stopped by the bedside, and 
stooped down over her. 

“ May I have a kiss ? ” I asked. 

She put her arms up round my neck, and drew me down 
to her. Our lips would have met, but that I, avoiding 
hers, kissed her on the cheek. Then I, supporting myself 
by my two arms on either side of her (for she still held 
me), and, looking at her, said, — 

“If you think you would n’t be happy with me, Eosy, 
it is not too late for you to go back again. ” 

“ Naughty boy ! ” she said, smiling at me. “ Fancy talk- 
ing like that! ” 

“ Nay, ” I said, “ I was quite serious. You see what a 


217 


A Child of the Age. 

weathercock I am: one moment laughing, the next crying, 
the next cursing. It is not too late to go hack again to 
your old life. Nay, it will never he too late ! Whenever 
you are tired of me, you must leave me. Half of what was 
mine is yours. That goes without the saying. You are your 
own mistress — now, as always, as far as I am concerned. ” 

“ Well,” she said, “ then I ’ll take you, if you please.” 

After a moment, — 

“ That being so, ” I said, smiling, “ I am yours — till you 
are tired of me, that is. Till when, I will do my best — 
what in me lies, to make you happy. So help me my own 
poor will and love for you ! ” I bent down and kissed her 
on the lips. 

For the first week or so, there was no one in the inn — 
or, as they called it, the Hotel du Midi — but us ; hut a 
good many people came over from the two adjacent towns 
of St. Denys and Marny to spend the day, going back by 
the diligence in the evening. Then two Englishmen, evi- 
dent ’Varsity men or aspirers thereto, en toui\ arrived 
and stayed for a short time; but, beyond talking with 
them a little at dinner (what I had taken, by-the-hy, for 
our private sitting-room, turned out to be a public one), 
we, or rather I, saw nothing of them. 

The following, written later, refers to now : — 

“I had some things to trouble my peace: to write, and more 
than once, to Mr. Sandford, the solicitor who had informed me 
of Colonel James’s death and of my inheritance of his fortune, 
and to Strachan touching the Book. 

“ I scarcely knew what to say to Mr, Sandford. Certainly I 
was not going to explain to him the cause of my sudden flight, 
and as certainly I was not going to lie about the matter. In the 
letter in which he informed me of the burial of Colonel James 
in Kensal Green, and of the probable cost of a suitable tombstone, 
etx:. ; he said that he now regretted, after his long, he might say. 


218 


A Child of the Age. 

personal affection for the deceased, an affection which, etc , and 
in which, etc., etc., but he must request that I would transfer the 
conduct of my affairs to, etc., etc., etc. 

“ I sat frowning over the regular winged writing for a little, 
with a vague wonder as to the nature of the friendship here 
alluded to, and sorrow that I had apparently profaned it, then 
tore the paper across, and threw it on to the table beside me. 
And Rosy came in with her hat on, ready for a ramble over the 
reefs now the tide was out ; and that was the end of the matter — 
as regarded the friendship, I mean. 

“ One afternoon, in a fit of despondency, I sat down and began 
a letter to Rayne. I am not quite sure whether in my inmost 
mind I absolutely intended sending it. I think that the chief 
reason for my writing, or rather attempting to write it, was the 
relief thereby given to my pent-up feelings. Sheet after sheet 
was ripped up, and at last I sat still in a disgust that was almost 
petulant. Suddenly a hot flush stole up to my cheek, and I looked 
fixedly at the pile of torn-up paper in front of me, which con- 
tained shameful words : hints of what I had done. ‘ I could never 
see her again,’ I had said, ‘ I could not forget what had passed 
between us. Did she expect me to return and look at her being 
consumed alive at the stake of Duty ? I was made of flesh and 
blood. Such a sacrifice as she was making was a sacrifice to 
Moloch: sin, not heroism.’ — In any case, how purposeless, all 
this ! in every case, how unmanly ! She had to dree her own 
weird, and T too with what light conscience and knowledge could 
impart. That was all. All that day I felt I had done a wrong 
to Rosy. If there was a victim anywhere, it was she. 

“ Then came Strachan. — 1 told him simply that it was impos- 
sible for me to return to London, at any rate, at present : I hoped 
never. I was going on to Paris in September, and might perhaps 
take up my permanent abode there. Could not the proof sheets 
be sent to me there, and from me on to him ? I would write to 
him again from the Hotel de Manchester, Rue Faubourg St. 
Ilonore, when I got there. I hoped Parker, Innes, and Co. had 
accepted the Book all right. I should stay at the Hotel de Man- 
chester till I found a house to please me. But more later, I asked 
him to excuse haste and confusion. Asa matter of fact, I hated 
pens, ink, and paper now. To write at all required an effort. 


219 


A Child of the Age. 

I was thinking of buying a vineyard, and eating fruit till I 
brought on — whatever the disease was that was induced by a 
surfeit of grapes. I hoped Mrs. Strachan and the Miss Strachans 
were well. It was rather dull weather here. We had not had 
a fine summer for long. I doubted we ever should have one 
again. And I remained, etc., etc.’’ 

A few days after this, a small troop of students and girls 
who, the fat hostess assured me, were their brides, arrived, 
and we had rather noisy times of it at dinner. Kosy did 
not like any of them. Me they amused. I used to talk 
with the men, or rather boys, as I best could. (Among 
other articles I had purchased at St. Denys, was a French 
dictionary and a stock of French novels at which I studied 
some hours a day.) But my belief in the brides (I mean in 
their brideship) was soon first considerably shaken, and 
then altogether demolished. I remember how one evening 
I was sitting out on the veranda (in the evenings the sitting- 
room was nearly always deserted for the garden or the coun- 
try round about), having been reading Balzac’s Memoir es 
de Deux Jeunes Mariees with some pleasure, when I be- 
came aware of one of our young couples at the bottom of 
the garden, sporting together somewhat as I supposed Isaac 
to have sported with Bebekah on a certain historic occasion 
not unconnected with Abimelech and a window. The idea 
made me laugh, and laugh again, till it shook my book 
down off my knees : when a hand was put over my eyes 
and firmly pressed there. I threw it off, and beheld Eosy 
standing, absolutely glaring at me. 

“ Hullo,” I said, “ what ’s the matter? ” 

“ You were laughing at one of those girls,” she said. 

“ No, ” I said, “ I was laughing at a couple there in the 
bushes, playing together.” 

“ You were not ! You were laughing at that girl with the 
red hair. I saw her go out there a moment ago on purpose ! ” 

“Are you joking?” I said surprisedly, getting up. I 


220 


A Child of the Age. 

could see she was not. I turned a little. She turned, so 
as to keep her eyes on mine. Our eyes met and stayed to- 
gether while I spoke : — 

“ Hosy, ” I said, “ 1 do not tell lies, at least of this sort. 
When I tell you I have done a thing, I do not expect you 
to question the truth of my words.” 

“ But you did ! ” she burst out, “ You did ! You know 
you did ! ” 

“ Did what?” 

“ Nod to her, and laugh at her! I saw you ! ” 

I lost patience. I gave one step to her. 

“I warn you never to say such a thing again,” I said. 
“ There must be trust between us, or nothing. I did not 
tell you this before. I thought you understood it. Now 
choose. Believe me, or 'vve part — for always. I will 
never see you again.” 

If I had not caught her, she would have fallen. She 
writhed about in my grasp, muttering quickly, her face and 
hands working, her eyelids quivering. I held her and 
looked at her steadily. I did not know what was the mat- 
ter with her; but was decided that she must say she be- 
lieved me, or we would part. Life with a woman who did 
not trust you, would be nothing short of the popular con- 
ception of hell. 

At last she became coherent enough for me to gather that 
I had terrified her. Then she appeared to recognize me, 
and covered me with a hundred endearments, beseeching 
me over and over again not to leave her, or she would kill 
herself. I did not know how she loved me ! Indeed, in- 
deed, she could n’t help it ! She always was jealous — from 
a child ! If I would only kiss and be friends again, as we 
were before, she would never, never be jealous again. But 
that girl with the red hair was so forward-like, she did n’t 
care what she did I 

Weary of this, I sat her down on the sofa and stood, half- 


221 


A Child of the Age. 

turned away, before her. She went on in the same strain 
for a little, and then came a pause. Perhaps she was ex- 
hausted. I said : — 

“Well, Kosy, have you considered? I was not joking 
just now. I asked you to choose. Do you believe what I 
said to you about those two down there, or do you not ? 
You know what your choice implies?” 

“ What 1 ” she asked ; “ what do you mean ? ” 

I answered, — 

“ I cannot live with any one who thinks that I have told 
them a deliberate lie. If you think I have told you a lie, 
then I will leave you.” 

“ I don’t think, you told a lie. I never said I thought 
you told a lie.” 

“ Did n’t you say just now you thought I had been 
laughing at that red-haired girl ? ” 

“ Yes; I said I thought you did.” 

“ And did n’t I say I had not 1 ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And did n’t you say then that I had ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And did n’t I tell you that I had not ? ” 

“ Ye-es.” 

“ And did n’t you refuse to believe me ? ” 

“ Ye-e-es.” 

“ And what is that but telling me, straightly and directly, 
that I had lied to you ? ” 

“ I don’t understand it,” she said, piteously, bewildered. 
I walked round the table, with my hands in my pockets. 

Then, standing in the middle of the open window, I stared 
out into the dull evening and my thoughts. T do not know 
how long 1 stood so; maybe scarcely two minutes, but it 
seemed more than two hours. I roused myself with a sigh, 
turned round, and going to her, knelt down by her knees, 
put my arms round her and kissed her. 


222 A Child of the Age. 

How the child smiled, and cried, and laughed, and caressed 
me! 

We came on to Paris in the first week or so of September, 
to the Hotel de Manchester. A letter had arrived there for 
me the night before, from Strachan. He expressed surprise 
at my flight in the night-time, and hoped that there was 
nothing serious the matter with me? But Mrs. Strachan 
had been pestering him to take her and the girls to Paris 
for a fortnight, and as his term at the Queen’s College did 
not begin till the end of October (by-the-hy he had not 
informed me that he had just got the chair of Natural 
History there, had he?) he thought he might manage it 
(say) half-way through September. We could talk over 
matters about the Book then. Parker had agreed to publish 
it all right; but there was some lumber about plates, etc. 
He would write again shortly, or, perhaps better, when he 
arrived in Paris. 

I answered this letter at once. 

First, as regarded the Book. No expense was to be 
spared to make it attractive. That was my affair, or rather, 
it was Mr. Brooke’s own. I only held his money and prop- 
erty as a guardian till Mr. Starkie returned from Africa, 
when I should hand it over to him with the account of what 
had been expended of the one or made use of of the other, 
during his absence. But, I was quite sure, no possible objec- 
tion could be raised to any expense undertaken in behalf of 
the Book. I would be responsible for that. For the rest, 
I need not say how glad I should be to see him (Strachan) 
here in Paris, but it would be, I thought, impossible for me 
to see Mrs. Strachan or his daughters. For this reason: 
there was with me now one who had given up all she had 
for my sake, for which I loved and reverenced her, and, 
considering that the only reason that she was not my wife 
was because I did not believe in what was known as “ mar. 
riage, ” I would go nowhere where she could not come with 


223 


A Child of the Age. 

me, and be assured of the same respect as if she ivere my 
wife. This I knew was more than I could ask (my first 
form of the sentence was : than either I could ask or desire) 
of Mrs. Strachan, with the beliefs that I knew she held. 
I repeated that 1 should be indeed glad to see him here, 
I hoped in my own house, and have some opportunity of 
returning him some little of the hospitality which he and his 
had given to me while I was in London. 

There was, I thought, no more to be said than this. If 
he were a true man, it would be enough : if he were not, 
then let each go on his separate way. It was as nothing to 
me. Only one acquaintance the less. . . . Should I never 
have a friend ? 

In the morning, Rosy and I set out together in pursuit of 
a house, or rather a fiat, to suit us. After some trouble, I 
remembered that, when I had been at the pension in the 
Avenue de Fontenoi, I had noticed a flat that was to let, 
some way up the street, which had impressed me favor- 
ably for some reason or other. I suggested that we should 
go there now, and we did. The place suited us, and we 
took it. 

We, or rather I, began with a delightful scheme of doing 
each room (there were seven not counting the kitchen, all 
opening into one another) in some particular style : as, for 
instance, there was to be a terra-cotta room, and a brass room, 
and a silvered room, and so on. I got through the first two 
pretty well, I think, but with some trouble, in the next three 
or four days. Then one morning came a letter from Strachan. 
He would manage to see me soon somehow, and we could 
arrange about the Book. He was bound to cross the Channel 
in any case, he found, before the term began. There were 
some bones in the Museum of Natural History that he must 
manage to see somehow, before he went on any further with a 
monograph on the Elephas Primogenius he was now working 
at. Mrs. Strachan and the girls were not coming to Paris 


224 


A Child of the Age, 

this year. I must excuse haste, and, hoping to see me well, 
he remained, etc., etc. 

What a time that was, furnishing the house ! As for the 
idea of doing each room of the house in a particular style — 
Vhomme propose, les commis disposent ! I really don’t 
know how we ever got the place done at all. However, at 
the end of a fortnight, we, or rather I, again had made five 
of the seven rooms habitable, and the two servants I had 
got had done the same for the kitchen. (The servants of 
the whole house slept up above in the grenier, as they call 
it, not in the several flats.) I worked like a slave, and 
rather liked it: hanging all the pictures, deciding where, 
and generally helping, to put all the things in their places, * 
and so on ; for I had my doubts about the Parisian sense of 
tlie beautiful in the matter of furniture arrangement. 

Rosy’s chief anxiety in the matter was as concerned the 
fate of the things which she had herself ordered, all the linen 
and the household utensils. She did not care to come up 
to the place itself, for reasons of her own : not unconnected, 

I thought, with a small coffin which had happened to be 
exposed by the door one morning, covered with flowers, a 
child’s coffin. When I had asked her, as we went up the 
stai)-case, why she hurried by so quickly, she said in a 
half-whisper : 

“ It was a child! Don’t let ’s talk about it.” 

It must have been a fine thing in the way of amusement 
to have seen her ordering her things at the Magasin du 
Louvre, her favorite shop, lists in hand. The composition 
of those lists in the evenings ""with pen, ink, paper, and 
dictionary was delightful; but she would not hear of my 
going with her to see their fulfilment. 

At last all was ready for her, and the next morning we 
installed ourselves. 

I remember that, as we sat together that evening, I looked 
across to her sitting with far-off eyes with her book and 


225 


A Child of the Age. 

thought how impossible it was to know anything about 
any one else. I felt that in her mind a train of ideas 
existed of which I was absolutely ignorant. 

At last : 

“ Kosy, ” I said, getting up, “ I have not welcomed you to 
your home.” 

She rose, and I took her hands, and looking into her 
eyes, went on : 

“ Welcome to it, and may you be happy in it! And here 
at the beginning of our new life together, let us say, that, 
whatever may happen, one thing shall always be between us 
— Trust. Believe me, ” I said, taking her in my arms, and 
looking closer into her eyes, “ Believe me, child, that without 
Trust, happiness can never live, let love be as broad and as 
deep as is the sea. Oh Kosy, give yourself to me, heart and 
soul ! It seems to me, as we are now, that Love is not so far 
away from us.” 

Her arms pressed me with strange strength. Her face 
grew to mine : our lips met in a kiss that was her full 
surrender unto mine ; a kiss so sweet, so long, so mingling, 
that I knew not whether this was death or life, or earth or 
heaven. And then I thought that it was Love. 


15 


CHAPTER V; 


I. 


HE professor came in upon us after twelve o clock lunch, 



one mild October day, when we were standing together 
outside the study, leaning over the balcony-rails and watcli- 
ing the aerial manoeuvres of two martins. 

“ I am glad to see you, ” I said, holding his hand and 
looking into his face. Then turning to Rosy, who had 
drawn back on the sudden appearance of this stranger by 
my side, I explained; 

“ This is the friend for whose sake I wished our house to 
be ready — Professor Strachan.” 

Rosy put out a timid hand, and said blushingly and 
softly; 

“ I am glad to see you, sir ! ” 

The professor smiled. Who could help it? And then 
gave an odd glance at me which I rejected, and that I think, 
dismissed some invisible commonplace trouble of ours into 
the outer air, and he and I were in some way more really 
friends than we ever had been before. 

He stayed in Paris for eight or nine days, during which 
I had the pleasure of going with the Rosebud and him to 
see the plays which were the best worth seeing. Those 
evenings were happy ones. He and the child took to one 
another, quite remarkably : and therein perhaps lay the 
happiness of those evenings — at least to me — to sit still 
and listen to their talk, with a certain half-dreaminess in 
my thoughts of them, and with a certain half-wonder in the 
half-dreaminess. I remember how particularly this feeling 


227 


A Child of the Age. 

came to me the last night he was with us (at the Gymnase 
it was), and how it dominated me all the way home, and how, 
looking into his eyes as after supper he said good-night to 
me a second time at the street-door, the sudden thought 
came that he knew my final thought, and to where did that 
final thought tend ? As I came up the dark staircase with 
my candle-light sending uncouth shadows about me above 
and below, I wondered, in a half-vague way, about the 
meaning of the thing. 

When I entered the dining room, I found Eosy leaning 
against the mantelpiece, warming one foot. 

“ Are you cold ? ” I said, putting down the candle on the 
table, and throwing myself into an easy-chair, with my 
knuckles up to my mouth and my eyes to her. 

“ Yes,” she said; “ I am cold, — a little.” 

“ Why, it ’s quite warm.” 

She made a little motion with her back expressive of a 
shiver. I took up a book. She turned her head; 

“Don’t read any more to-night,” she said. “You’re 
always rea-ding.” 

“ Am I ? ” I asked, looking at the tops of the leaves ; 
“ perhaps I want to get wise. Now if I were you. Rosy, 
I should learn French. I ’d be only too glad to get you a 
master. And why not music, too ? ” 

“ I don’t seem to care about it,” she said. 

“ You are lazy.” 

A pause. 

She came to me. 

“ Don’t sit on the arm of the chair,” I said, “or you ’ll 
break it.” 

She stopped. I continued looking at the tops of the 
leaves. Then she drew a stool from underneath the table 
to my feet, and sat down upon it and looked at me. In a 
little I met her gaze. 

“Well?” I said. 


228 A Child of the Age. 

“ I will learn tlie Frencli and the music if you like, ” she 
said. 

I laughed. 

“ My dear, the liking must he yours. I don’t want you 
to do what you don’t like.” 

“ You ’re always rea-ding, ” she said. “ I don’t believe you 
ever think about me. You don’t care what I do ! — really. ” 

“ I don’t,” I said. “ You are right.” She seemed struck 
speechless. 

I opened the book and began reading. 

At last : 

“You don’t — care — what — I do?” she repeated in 
amazement. 

“ No, ” I said, “ You may go to the devil as soon as you 
please.” 

Silence. I reading. 

At last I said : 

“ The Professor, you see, came over later than I thought 
he would.” 

A pause. 

I felt her hand on my knee. 

“ Are you joking? ” she asked. 

“ Joking ? ” said I, lowering the book and looking at her 
•with surprise, “ Not the least in the world. I said I did n’t 
care what you did. I don’t. You remember my agreement 
with you? You were to take half the money and leave me 
the moment you tired of me. I have come to the conclu- 
sion that it ’s only fair for me to be able to do the same 
with you. I ’m tired of you.”- I lifted up the book and 
continued my reading. 

In a little she rose and went to the fireplace. I read on. 
She made no sign of life. A sudden idea came to me that 
she had fainted — nay, was dead ! I lowered my book : saw 
her gazing over the table into the air: got up, throwing the 
book onto the table by the candle, and said slowly : 


229 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Well, my dear, let ’s part good friends at the least. It 
was a blunder, our acquaintance, but there is no ill-feeling 
on either side ; eh ? In token whereof we will spend one 
more night together, and then — part ? . . 

Silence; she still gazing over the table into the air. I 
advanced and recognized that I desired her, which made 
me laugh. It was the first time I had recognized the fact. 
Slie answered nothing: made no motion. A sudden feeling 
of the cruelty of my experiment seemed to bite me. I had 
not thought of it in that way, — cruelty. I at once began 
to undo my sewing : — 

“ Well, Eosehud,” said I, taking her two little still hands 
in mine, “ You little duffer, what are you thinking about? ” 

At last she looked at me ; looked in my eyes long, till I 
laughed. 

“ You are a bad man,” she said. 

“ You do not mean it ? ” I said saucily. “ You are a good 
worn ...” She had in a moment smitten me smartly 
on the cheek with the palm of her hand! I burst out into 
bright laughter, catching her, as she sat bolt upright with 
an expression half-startled, half-defiant, in my arms, and 
smothering her cheeks and lips with kisses. . . . 

But the experiment was spoilt. Perhaps it was premature. 

I wondered that night, or rather morning, as I lay awake 
thinking in the grey light, while she slept gently like a 
child beside me, why I had attempted that experiment, 
and what I had quite meant by it ? And wondering, I fell 
asleep. 

The next evening, I met the Professor at the Gare du 
Nord, as we had arranged, and (he, at the end of our walk 
up and down in the hall, commending Eosy to my care as a 
last sudden thought which I felt he had n’t liked to broach 
as of any other sort) I saw the last of him that was to be 
seen, and turned away a little sadly. 

As I walked home to Eosy, who was waiting for me (to 


230 


A Child of the Age, 

go out a walk she had said, and I had half agreed), I had a 
feeling that we two, she and I, were going through a some- 
what difficult stage of development, and thought of it, as 
usual now, half vaguely. When I opened our door, I found 
her seated on the ottoman in the hall, dressed in furs, 
waiting. 

“ Dear girl, ” I said, drawing out the latchkey, “ it ’s 
quite warm out. How can you expect to walk quickly 
when you ’re muffled up like a mummy ? And stays on 
underneath, I ’ll he bound. ” I was smiling. She came 
towards me with a saucy strut holding up her dress so as to 
show her small pointed boots and pretty colored stockings. 
I looked at them, and said; — 

“Oh, frightful!” 

She caught me by the arm and half-swung there. 

“ You ’re in such a good temper to-day I ” she said, laugh- 
ing, “ We ’ll go to a nice cafe on the boulevard, and drink 
cafe noir, in nice china cups, and play at dominoes. I do 
like dominoes. We will — Eli ? ” 

“ If, ’ said I, “ you die before me, I will have you buried 
in stays and patent-leather boots, and have a corset cut on 
your gravestone. You won’t find corsets in heaven when 
you get there. You will have to migrate further south. 
There are plenty of them in hell. Satan invented them.” 

“ How shockingly you do talk ! ” she said. 

“ How so ? tell me that ? ” I said seriously. 

“ You should n’t talk in that way.” 

I sat down laughing on the ottoman. 

“ Shall we go to the cafe by the Frangais ? ” I asked, “ You 
see, my dear, this earth is, after all, rather an odd place to 
live in; and we humans — or rather, we animals — are 
really after all, rather odd things to be living in it; and 
this is all the more so on account of murder and sausages. 
Shall we go to the cafe by the Franqais % ” 

“ How ri-diculous you are 1 ” she said, “ very well. ” 


231 


A Child of the Age. 

“ My dear, ” I said, “ shall we take a cab % ” 

We took a cab, and I talked like a rational (or irrational) 
being for the rest of the evening. 

It was late when we got home again, and the concierge 
apparently deep in his slumbers ; for we stood at the door, 
(I pulling at the bell, Kosy seemingly tired into the quiet- 
ness of an implicit acceptance of things), for over five 
minutes. At last we got in, and went slowly up the dark 
staircase together, I all at once thinking of last night’s 
experiment till I began to laugh. Then I found we were 
standing in front of our own door; perhaps had been so for 
some time. Rosy stood with her hands muff- wise in her 
sleeves, and her eyes half closed, and her pretty little head 
sleepily quavering downwards. I chucked her sharply under 
the chin. 

“ It 's time to get up and eat sally-luns, ” I declared. 

“ Good gracious, how you did startle me ! ” she said, 
“ What ’s the matter 1 ” 

I drew the latchkey out of my pocket, and, at the first 
shot, drove it into the key-hole, and opened the door. The 
ornamented, luxurious passage looked as if it were warm 
and almost cosey in the red light of the hanging oil lamp’s 
little floating red core-flame. She went in, and I after her, 
closing and locking the door behind me, while she passed 
on into the morning-room. There was a small window 
lialfway up the left-hand wall of the passage, and it looked 
into the study. I could see that the curtain, that was 
usually drawn right across the window, was only half 
drawn. I went and observed what she was doing. She 
was on her way across the room — to the fire, of course. 
Ilown she sat on the hearthrug, and doubtless was staring 
into the red-ember realm of castles and dreams. Then 
she looked round : ‘ Why was n’t he coming ? ’ Then back 
again at the red-ember realm. What a strange thing for 
me, here, in Space and Time and Life, so to be observing 


232 


A Child of the Age. 

her, here, too, in Space and Time and Life. What were 
we to one another? Not only Kosy to me, and I to Kosy, 
but each one of us — each one of us humans to each other 
one ? The thought grew broader in me, my eyes still 
regarding the firelight picture there, but not comprehending 
it. She looked round again. The movement recalled me 
to my ordinary self. “ Why was n’t he coming ? ” I felt 
a sudden great tenderness for the poor child waiting for me 
there. Oh, K-osebud, Rosebud ! 

Then I passed in and through the morning-room, where, 
on the sofa lay her furred coat and hat, and, parting the 
curtains of the doorway, stepped into the study. She was 
looking back for me. I threw my hat into a chair; pulled 
off my coat ; sent it after the hat, and came to her. I threw 
myself down behind her on the soft hearthrug, and resting 
my head, that was beside her, on my hand, looked into the 
eyes that were looking into mine. 

“ Rosy, ” I said, “ do you believe in God ? ” 

“ Yes ! ” adding, her eyes in the red-ember realm, “ of 
course. ” 

“ Then don’t you think you ’re doing wrong being with 
me?” 

” Yes.” 

“ And don’t you think you ’ll be punished for it ? ” 

“ I am sure I shall, ” she said. 

A pause. 

“ Then why do you do it ? ” 

“ Because I can’t help it! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I can’t help it. — Can’t you see, ’ she said, turning full 
unfathomed eyes on me, “ I can’t help it ! I love every 
muscle in your body.” 

The simplicity of thought, and voice and word made me 
say, with a suspicion of a small smile round the comers of 
my mouth: ‘That’s awkward,’ and bring my eyes down 


233 


A Child of the Age. 

to the hearthrug, while I thought for a moment of that 
last expression of hers and its meaning. 

Then, looking up : 

“ Would you like me to marry you ? ” I asked. 

Her eyes went as unfathomed as before into the red- 
emher realm again, and became distant. Her lips said 
slowly : 

“ I should like to have you without the sin j but ...” 

“ Well — ” 

“ I shouldn’t like you to marry me.” 

« Why ? ” 

No. answer. 

I repeated; 

“Why?” 

“ CanH you see, ” she said, turning her eyes to me, “ why 
I should n’t like you to marry me ? ” 

“ No.” 

She looked to the red-ember realm once more, but not 
into it, and her eyes became dreamy. 

At last she spoke. 

“ I don’t think, ” she said, “ you ’d care for me even as 
much as you do now if you married me. No ” (she sliook 
her head), “ I would n’t like you to marry me. Besides . . .” 

“Well — ? ” 

“ You will want to marry some one, ” she said, suddenly 
looking at me, “some day.” 

“ No, ” I said, “ I shall never want to marry — any one ! ” 

“ Ah, ” she said, “ wait till you love some one — and 
then ! ” She nodded her head. 

“ Why do you think I did n’t marry you ? ” I asked. 

“ Because you did n’t want to ! ” she said. 

“ No ! At least, no to your thought. ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I don’t believe in marriage. If I did, I should have 
married you.” 


234 A Child of the Age. 

“ That ’s sinful, not to believe in marriage. Don’t you 
believe in God 1 ” 

“ To the best of my belief, no. One thing I am sure 
about: I don’t believe in Jesus. I suppose Jesus and God 
are one and the same thing, are they not ? ” 

“Yes, Jesus is God.” 

“ And God is Jesus? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How is that ? ” 

“ That ’s the mystery. We don’t know. You ought to 
have faith, and believe in it. ” I looked down. There 
was absolutely no good in attempting to say anything seri- 
ous on these matters to her. I looked up again. 

“ Kosy, ” I said, “ I don ’t like you to think what I can 
see you do think about my not having married you. I 
would not marry any woman in the world, however much 
I loved her. I could not repeat the words of the marriage 
service with my lips, and laugh at them in my heart. That 
would not be true.” 

“ You would, though,” she said, looking at me with a 
look of experience, “if you loved a person.” 

What was the good of contradicting her ? I kept silence, 
with downcast eyes , for a moment. Then I said : 

“ Why, if you believe that you will be punished for all 
this, don’t you ask me to marry you and chance my not 
caring for you then even as much as I do now — as you 
say? What sort of punishment do you think you ’ll get? ” 

“I shall be burned mjire\ I knew that long ago . . . 
I knew quite well it would be like this some day. I used 
to pray to God not to think about you, but I could not help 
it : I did think about you ! When you went away to Paris, 
I was ill, and I thought I was going to die; and I promised 
God I would never think about you any more; but I got 
well again, and I went on thinking about you more than 
ever! I could n’t help it! And at last I felt I couldn’t 


235 


A Child of the Age. 

do without you. You ’ve no idea what a way I used to 
get in sometimes. I used to feel as if I must get up that 
very moment, and go and find you, and hold you in my 
arms and love you. I couldn’t help it! I know I shall be 
punished for it; I suppose I must be! — Then, you see, 
you came back, and we had those walks together. I knew 
you didn’t care for me; but you were so much tome. I 
couldnH do without you ! 

To watch the child as she sat, looking with her dreamy 
unfathomed eyes into the fire, and to hear her telling lier 
story in this way ! 

I drew myself up beside her, and put my arm round her 
shoulders, leaning her body against mine. She did not 
seem to notice my movement, or to feel my arm round her 
shoulders. She was silently gazing before her. 

“Rosy,” I said, “Rosebud,” rubbing my cheek softly 
against hers, “ I would do anything, if it were only true, to 
make you happy. I would marry you to-morrow if it were 
not for those . . . those words that would be so false in 
my mouth, that I could not utter them. I could not do 
tliat. But there are other ways of marrying people, now I 
think of it. I will find out about them. Then you see, 
you would be my wife : I mean, as far as having my name ; 
so that no one could think or say anything against you.” 
(She was shaking her head.) “ Nay, ” I said, smiling, ^^canH 
you see that in this way you would have a greater, a more 
lawful claim, as you might say, upon me, in case I ever 
did want to marry any one — with the marriage-service and 
the rest of it ? ” I was smiling. 

“No,” she said; “I wouldn’t care, about that. Not 
one bit! ” 

“ But suppose, ” I said, “ suppose I ever did fall in love with 
any one, and did want to marry them? . . . What then?” 

“ Then you ’d have to, that ’s all ! ” she said. 

“ But what would you do ? ” 


236 


A Child of the Age. 

“ I ’d go aivay, and never see you again ! ” 

“ I hope you would n’t, E-osy ! I hope you never would, 
whatever comes or goes. You would always let me he your 
friend. ” 

“ While some other woman had you? That ’s likely ! Oh, 
you don ’t know what love is ! ” 

“ I don’t, ” I said, “ but you know quite well that I 
never would leave you, however much I loved any one 
else. ” 

“ But I would leave you^ if I thought you loved any one 
else. ” 

“ But I wouldn’t let you know.” 

“ But you could n’t help it. ” 

“ But I never shall love any one.” 

“ How do you know that ? / thought I never should love 
any one ; hut, you see, I do. I hope you ’ll love some one 
some day who does n’t love you^ and then you’ll know what 
I have to suffer. ” 

A pause. 

“ Supposing, ” said I, “ that I loved you, and you did n’t 
love me.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, supposing you loved somebody else, and left me, 
I should n’t mind always being your friend. ” 

She gave a short laugh. 

“Wouldn’t you! Oh no! I tell you: if I ever found 
out that you touched any woman besides me, I would go 
away from you ! I would never see you again! You never 
should touch me again ! The idea of being your — friend 
as you call it ! Do you think I could look at any woman, 
and know that she had you, and . . . and not kill her? ” 

She stopped : then began shaking her head and laughing to 
herself. I eyed her from under gathered brows : I suspected 
the actor’s sense in her as well as in myself. I turned her 
head round to me and kissed her full and long on the lips. 


237 


A Child of the Age. 

The effect was strange. — It was a new child this, here with 
me in a new place of early day’s air and light. I could 
scarcely think of the old self of hers that was now gone, 
gone I knew not where. 

“ Kiss me again, ” she said in a low, half-breathless voice, 
bringing her mouth towards mine, “ Kiss me ! ” 

A certain devil’s light of mirth came into my eyes. I 
laughed at her, and drew sharply back with back-spread 
arms. 

“ No, no, no,” I said, “ you little green-eyed monster you! 
You shall chase me for another kiss, if you want it. I . . .” 
I had stopped. 

She bent to me with her hands half-up, frightened a little 
at the look in my face. 

“ What is it? ” she said. “ What ’s the matter? ” 

She came close to me anxiously. 

“ What is it, dear? ” she said, “ Oh, do tell me! What ’s 
the mat-ter with you, dear ? Are you ill ? ” 

“ Nothing ’s the matter with me,” I said. It ’s time we 
were going to bed. . . . There, there ! It ’s all right, I tell 
you. Now, off you go to bed! You ’re tired out.” 

I took her hand and patted it between my two ; and then 
led her, strutting with fantastic playful gallantry, to the 
door-way and held up one curtain for her to pass. Just 
through it, she turned her head and shoulders back and 
asked prettily : — 

But you will come, too — soon ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said, smiling at her, “ I have something that I 
must do, that will take me a few minutes, and then I will 
come.” 

I let fall the curtain. In a moment I heard her step go 
on. Then I sat down in .the easy-chair and began to think ; 
to think of all this and what it meant, and then of the 
events of that far night of supreme folly at Bayne’s, or best 
say madness at once. 


238 


A Child of the Age. 

Sometliing wliicli I had to do was now done — done well, 
as it seemed to me, and that something was the final and 
complete clearing away of all the clouding illusion that 
had blackened the sight of that strange time of devilry, had 
dimmed the sight of the time that had followed upon the 
other as an oblivious summer upon an intoxicated spring. 
I was at last free. I saw things as they were, not as they 
seemed to be. It might well be that illusion would play its 
part in my future’s wilder hours; hut it never could he 
what it had been to the daily hours of my past. I was 
free. And that, I thought, meant something. 

I blew out the candles and drew back the hearthrug (for 
fear of some hot coals falling out of Rosy’s specially pro- 
cured English grate, and burning her, and me and the house, 
and my so significant freedom in the night), and then went 
in to her. 

She was already in bed, lying on her side, looking to the 
door-way curtains. A deep-shaded candle on the reading- 
table by the bedside, threw a light over the lower part of 
her face, and on one out-stretched arm in its long white- 
worked frill, and on the hand with upheld fingers on the 
white rounded edge of the bed. All the rest was shadowed. 

“ Well? ” I said, smiling, and standing for a moment with 
the curtains in my backward hands. 

She smiled back to me. I crossed over to her, and sat 
down beside the outstretched arm of the long white- worke<* 
frill and the hand of the upheld fingers, on the rounded 
edge of the bed. And I took the hand of the upheld fingers, 
while her two eyes looked quietly in mine; and bent, and 
softly kissed her two soft red lips ; and she murmured. 

“ You I had n’t to chase you for it, after all ! ” 

“No,” I answered, “ I cheerfully do what the dilly-ducks 
would not do : I come to be killed. Death ’s too sweet to 
be fearful.” 

“ . . . What do you mean ? ” 


239 


A Child of the Age. 

I kissed her again, smiling. 

“ That I love you.” 

“ . . . Then I hope you will always mean that; for I 
love you — oh, I do love you, — ever so much! ” 

" More than you love yourself % ” 

‘‘I don’t think I have any self left to love. It’s all 
yours I ” 

“ Then, in loving myself, I shall but be loving you ? ” 

“ Yes!” 

“ Love must be unselfish, then, whether it like it or no. 
Tor, in loving itself, it only succeeds in loving somebody 
else. . . , Do you understand it all 1 ” 

And seeing she did not, all of it, I once more bent again, 
and once more kissed her two soft red lips; and she once 
more murmured, laughing low : — 

“ I understand that part ! . . . But — 1 seem to think 
you might do it over a-gain ! ” 


II. 

I HAD divided the day off in this way : my books from ten 
to one; then lunch; then generally somewhere with Kosy 
till four or five; then two cups of tea and slices of thin 
bread and butter in the study, with the accompaniment of 
quiet talk, till talk died away in the inspection and desultory- 
reading of desultory books and newspapers; then, at half- 
past six, dinner; then either somewhere with Eosy again, 
or a less desultory reading of less desultory books and news- 
papers, till, at ten o’clock, bed. The only real work I did 
was my morning reading. I devoted three hours each day 
of the week to Homer, Sophocles, Plato, Vergil, Horace, 
Juvenal, and Dante severally. I do not think I had any 


240 


A Child of the Age. 

definite aim in view then for this study. I was content 
to do it, as I did all things, and he still. 

Walks with Kosy were not successes at first, for she 
walked both slowly and badly; hut I soon grew accustomed 
to the slowness, and the badness was remedied by occasional 
rides on the way. I liked to listen to her ; and she, if she 
was in good spirits, indulged me to the top of my bent. The 
childlike and seemingly endless interest that she took in 
things amused me. Her whimsical likes and dislikes of 
people she had never spoken to used once to put me* out: 
now I listened to her expositions of their faults with a 
curious pleasure. Her alternations of passion and quiet, of 
tears and laughter, were an endless April day, and, though 
sometimes her unreasonableness made me impatient, and at 
others I could not help teasing her to see the pretty results, 
on the whole I found it a real pleasure and comfort to be 
with her. 

One evening, when we were in her favorite position — she 
between my knees talking to me as I sat in the arm- 
chair — 

“ Eosy, ” I said, “ I will tell you what you are.” 

“ Well, ” she said, “ what 1 ” 

“You are a loving girl — one who squeezes softly, and 
kisses, and tries to steal away breath. I will tell you wlio 
was your prototype: a certain Shunamite. ^ And let her 
cherish him and lie in thy bosom. And moreover: ‘A 
bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie 
all night betwixt my breasts.' And: ‘ I charge you, 0 ye 
daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and by the hinds of 
the field, that ye stir not up nor awake my love till he 
please.'" 

“ Yes, ” she said, “ that's me. ” 

The mild autumn perished in rain-storms and the weather 
grew colder ; bracing and invigorating to me, enervating to 
her, — the veritable traditional winter.. At last we had keen 


241 


A Child of the Age. 

frost. She spent most of her time by the fire, generally 
sitting with her knees gathered up on the hearthrug, reading 
a book or thinking — Heaven knows what about ! 

My walks were nearly always alone now. Consequently 
they ceased to be semi-rides and became pure peripatetics. 
With them came also thought' again, to oust its poor sub- 
stitute of dreaming. The frost continued. We had a little 
snow. At first I tried to get her to take more exercise; 
but being out of doors in such weather was only misery to 
her, and so I let her alone. 

“We will go to Italy next winter,” said I one evening, 
having been for a tramp in the falling snow, changed my 
clothes, and stopped by and above her (she on the hearthrug, 
that is). “ To Italy! to Italy ! Italy was the dream of my 
boyhood. I am a real Northman. I have the migratory 
instinct in me. Oh, Italy, Italy — ” I stopped and sat 
down in the easy-chair, and thought about Italy and about 
my past dream of Italy, and about some one with me in Italy. 

At last: — 

“ You must be so cold,” she said. 

“Not I ! ” I answered, with a sudden look at her, “ I ’m 
as warm as a toast. By Jove! ” I added, “ I must do some- 
thing to-night.” (The something being a something in my 
head that seemed to wish for written expression.) My re- 
mark was a sort of outwork designed to stop any advancing 
objections on Bosy’s part. 

None came. She sat silent on the hearthrug, with her 
chin on her up-gathered knees, and her eyes in the fire. I 
wished her away in bed — the best place for her. I disliked 
writing with any one in the room. As I was settling my 
desk and paper on the table, I suggested it to her. 

“ What 1 ” she said, looking round at me. 

“ You seem tired, ” I said, bringing a chair to my place. 
“ Had nT you better go to bed 1 ” 

« . . . Is it very cold outside 1 ” 

IG 


242 


A Child of the Age. 


“Very. The snow is freezing.” 

“ How long do you think it will last ? ” 

“The snow?” 

“ ISTo ; the cold. — I do hate it so ! ” 

“ How can I tell? I ...” (I had begun writing some- 
thing) “ don’t know. ” 

“ Why do you talk in that way ? ” 

“ What way ? ” 

Ultimately, after some annoying attempts at interruption, 
she went off to bed, in an injured frame of mind, and I Was 
left alone with my work. An opening scene of a story had 
occurred to me, and I was interested in expressing it, — a not 
too unfrequent occurrence at that time; so far unfailingly 
accompanied by gradual loss of interest as the story pro- 
ceeded, till, quite disgusted, I either burnt or cast it into 
an MS. drawer of mine, and troubled myself no more 
about it. 

I finished my opening scene in the first heat of emotion, 
and then, after a pause, re-read what I had done. AVhat 
seemed to me my grip on, my mastery over the characters 
I had created, pleased me; not because it was mine, but 
because it was there, and in harmony with my mood. 
Then I sat for long thinking. It was early : I was begin- 
ning to feel both tired and hungry. Yes, it was impossible 
for me to sink into mere sensuousness. I had a work to 
do in the world and I intended to do it. This work would 
require patient preparation, and I was determined that I 
would give it. I had been unhappy in London : “ society ” 
was not enough for me. I had been unhappy with Kosy : 
love was not enough with me. I had been unhappy with 
my dreams: myself was not enough for me. I had lived 
for “ society, ” for love, for myself, and had found that 
they did not satisfy me. It was time that I lived for some- 
thing else — for something higher, and broader, and deeper. 
... I spent the next three or four days in the same 


243 


A Child of the Age. 

way outwardly as any others, that is to say, did my classics 
ill tlie mornings, took my “ constitutional ” in the afternoons, 
and read in the evenings; but inwardly I spent them in a 
different way from any others of my life. I reviewed my 
past in order that I might see what causes lay there that 
were likely to have an influence on my future. I faced all 
these causes, good or evil, fearlessly, quietly resolved to 
encourage those that were good, and do all that lay in me to 
eradicate those that were evil. The one idea that I kept 
constantly before me was the idea of Strength: I must be 
Strong. 

Kosy looked upon what was already apparent as my new 
intercourse with her, with a somewhat suspicious eye. I 
believe she would far sooner have had even the old state 
of things with her back again. For, if my caprice leaped 
in evil-humored moments far away from her; in happy- 
huniored moments it leaped close to her; whereas, now her 
line of life and mine seemed parallel ; and parallel lines are 
those which are always the same distance from one another, 
that is to say, which never meet. Fosy, like the true 
woman she was (so it appeared to me), was quite ready 
to offer herself up on the altar of my happiness. It troubled 
her that now, instead of being, as I ought to have been, 
capricious, that is to say, selfish, I preserved a uniform 
clieerfulness of demeanor towards her; was always ready 
to do her little services; was always ready to prevent her 
doing me little services. It is true that I had in our happy 
period of “ lotus-eating, ” as I had once called it to myself, 
devoted myself to her en hloc ; but as she had said, or as 
I had said, in so devoting myself to her en hloc (“ loving ” 
was our term) I was but devoting myself to myself en bloc^ 
and vice versa. Then all the little services had been hers. 
I had been capricious; I had been selfish; and she had 
delighted in my capriciousness, in my selfishness — whereas, 
now ! . . . now I was the highest sinner that is arraigned 


244 


A Child of the Age. 

l)y Love, the sinless one ! What right had I to the pre- 
serving of an uniform cheerfulness of demeanor towards 
her ? What right had I to the perpetual readiness to do her 
little services, the perpetual readiness to prevent her doing 
me little services? “Ah!’' thought Eosy, “that old time 
was the better time; for if it knew the depth of hell, it 
knew also the height of heaven: whereas, this new time 
knows only the dead level of purgatory. ” 

1 remember how I sat one evening, in the after-dinner 
hour when we were together in the study, observing her 
and translating her thoughts into my words, somewhat as 
above: and how at last, smiling at her for a poor dear child, 
1 got up, and went and chucked her under the chin, and in 
a serious way that made her eyes looking at me brighten 
up at the anticipation of one of the old erratic hours, the 
old erratic hours so often full of the golden atmosphere of 
heaven. And indeed there was a temptation in the air for 
me to enjoy one of those hours again. Why not? I 
commenced. 

But it soon made itself apparent to me that I had set 
myself, not to be, but to act. 

And Eosy showed that she too perceived, perhap.s more 
clearly than I gave her credit for, that it was not the doer 
but rather the actor that was wooing her. She was up 
and away in a pet: I, tickled by the idea of energetic 
desire in my Eosebud, laughing consumedly, careless how 
she took it. Then all at once I realized that I had once 
more been cruel to her: nay, but the word should be 
stronger, brutal. I was serious at once, and away to her 
to try and soothe her. And succeeded, and we had, as 
she said, a happy time again. 

Nevertheless her discontent with the new intercourse, as 
I now called it to myself, and to which I promptly returned, 
seemed to increase. And at last I found out that the 
more cheerful and obliging I was, the more uiicheerful and 


245 


A Child of the Age. 

disobliging was she ; and this discovery having come to a 
liead during the course of a whole evening, erupted in the 
bedroom in the shape of what is usually (I believe) called 
a “ scene, ” reproaches and tears versus sarcasm and silence. 
After a few minutes of Tears, Silence betook itself out of 
the bedroom and the house for a long ramble about the 
streets, and at last joining itself to Thought in preference to 
Irritation, with which it had set out, I began to draw a 
sort of picture of what life would have been with a woman 
— like Kayne, a strong woman ! Rayne had, I felt, been 
for some time an elevation to me, and now it seemed that 
she was growing into an ideal. After all, was she not the 
outward and visible sign of that inward and spiritual Strength 
which I worshipped? It was right that she should become 
an ideal to me; she was a strong woman. Then I came 
back home, and the storm flew over in April-showery kisses. 
But this made no difference about the new intercourse, which 
was promptly and unquestioningly persisted in. 

Meanwhile, she was, I found, apparently in persistent 
readiness to be suspicious. It occurred to me once or twice 
that she beheld that there was a woman in the case, and so 
kept on the lookout for proofs. The idea amused me, and 
once led me to demonstrations of my feeling somewhat in 
the manner of that factitious chucking under the chin. She 
seemed to recognize something ungenuine; for she would 
ha v^e nothing to say to me at that rate, and so I determined 
to do without the demonstrations in future, and did. I do 
not know if she was happy at this time. She took a greater 
interest in her household affairs than before, going out 
shopping with Amelie (the cook) in the mornings, drawing 
up lists of things, and so on. I was pleased to see this ; for 
it gave her something to do. 

In this way it came about in a remarkably short time that 
we two grew more like acquaintances or friends than lovers. 
Then I realized this, and was rather troubled by it; for I 


246 


A Child of the Age. 

felt that the reason for it was mine, and that she conld not 
like the present condition of affairs. But Avhat was to be 
done ? An inch with a child like Rosy meant, not an ell, 
hut the whole article. If I suddenly softened, she would 
take it as a sign of repentance, and that meant trouble of 
all sorts ! At present I was working away at my classics 
and what composition suggested itself; with occasional fits 
of disgust, it is true, hut avoiding the depths and getting 
out of the shallows as soon as possible. And I bore these 
occasional fits with a good deal of philosophy now, ascrib- 
ing them to some internal derangement, such as of liver, 
kidneys, or stomach, and as such to be endured in patience 
and silence. Weather, I found, affected me considerably. 

March, came round, but a March more like the traditional 
May. I took long walks each da}", ten miles as a rule ; once 
out to Pere-la-Chaise, to look at Brooke’s grave with its 
“ Thy will he done,” and saw Balzac’s bust and de Morny’s 
tomb (De Morny being a gilded rascal that interested me) 
and others, and stood and looked thoughtfully over the city 
that seemed like a great parasite that had driven its claws 
into the earth. Then there was the Louvre, and the Luxem- 
bourg, and, sometimes, theatres in the evenings with Rosy. 
A quietly happy time for me, made happier as the days 
stole on and found me still unshaken in my scheme of 
life. 

One evening. Rosy having a headache and not caring to 
go out anywhere, I went for a ramble about the streets, 
observing the stirring multitude In a most delightfully phil- 
osopliic way. The conviction of the general poorness of life 
was the deepest, but serenely deepest, conviction in me. IMy 
view of the matter was that, since T was alive and in certain 
circumstances, the only thing that was to be done was to 
make the best of them. 

Tlie dawn was breaking as I pulled at the concierge/s bell. 
I was a little tired, mentally and bodily. I came upstairs, 


A Child of the Age. 


247 


let myself in, and went into the study. All at once not 
only the general poorness, but also the general, and also the 
particular purposelessness of all life and of my own life came 
over me. I did not care to go to bed, I did not care to do 
anything. My eyes fell on my easy-chair: I went and lay 
hack in it, in a state that kept, every now and then, rising 
to a level, over the edge of which lay disgust and even 
despair. At last I rose, with an impatient curse. Was 
there never to be an end of this foolery? was I never to 
have rest, peace, comfort, self-sufficiency, call it what you 
please, — that spiritual sailing with spread canvas before a 
full and unvarying wind? Why was it, why? Was it 
really because the strange shadow of Purposelessness played 
the perpetual-rising Banquo at Life’s feast for me ? or was 
it that I was one who could not lack the Personal Deity 
with impunity ? I did n’t know, I did n’t know ! I wished 
tliat I were dead. I wished that I had never been born. 
What Personal Deity had I ever had ? . . . My thoughts 
stood still. I saw a small child go to the bed and slip down 
on his knees and tell God about it ; but then, remembering 
that He was up in the sky, clasp his two hands together, 
and look up to Him, and say : — 

“Dear God, You are a long, long way away from me: 
right up in the deep blue sky, farther away than even the 
sun, perhaps, and the moon and the stars. But ' I love 
You, I love You ! because you know everything I think 
about and everything that I want to do ! And I pray that 
You won’t let me die till I am very old and have done 
all the things I want to do. But please help me to be 
a great man. Through Jesus Christ our blessed Lord. 
Amen. ” 

I threw up my face with my hands behind my head, the 
sobs rising to my lips, the tears to my eyes. “ Oh, God, 
God, why should n’t I pray to You now ? Is there no one to 
hear me ? Is there no one to — What ? Bayne ! — Bayne / 


248 


A Child of the Age. 

you here ! ” Everything in me stood still. She was look- 
ing at me through the curtains. 

I made a sharp stride and opened them. It was 
Kosy. 

“ You startled me, ” I said, “ I took you for a ghost.” 

“Took me for a — ghost f she said slowly, advancing 
slowly, till her eyes were close to mine. 

“ You called me — Rayne ! ” she said. 

“ JSTo, ” I said ; “ not you — the ghost. ” 

Fury seemed suddenly to possess her. 

“ I hate her ! ” she cried, discordantly. 

I took her in my arms, in a half-unconscious way that 
meant quiet. 

“ Don’t be a fool, ” I said ; “ why did you get up ? ” She 
was struggling a little to get free. 

I let her go; and, turning, walked away to the hearth- 
rug, and stood collecting my thoughts. I felt her hand 
touch my arm. I looked aside and down, at her face. 

“ Don’t be unkind to me,” she said. “ You ’re not kind 
to me ! ” 

“ Then,” I said unaffectedly, “ I’m sorry.” I turned again, 
and, putting my hands on her shoulders, looked at her. 

“ As for that ‘ Don’t be a fool,’ of mine, you must n’t look 
upon it, or the things I say like it, as unkindness.” The 
expression of her full, half-dreamy, unfathomed eyes was 
pleading, pleading, all but pitiful. I did not know what 
to do, what to say. 

At last, — 

“ Dear girl, ” I said seriously, “I’m afraid you ’re still 
in love with me.” 

She answered nothing. 

“ I wish you were n’t, ” I said, “ If you only knew what 
folly it is — love, everything ! In ten years you may be a 
worm-eaten piece of carrion ; in less, perhaps. I too. Where 
do you think you ’ll be then ? Where shall I be 1 What ’ll 


A Child of the Age. 249 

be tlie good of your having loved me, or of my having 
loved you 1 ” 

“ You don’t love me,” she murmured, with eyes far 
away. 

“ By Love,” I said, “ I don’t know if I love you or not! 
Do you love me ? ” 

She smiled a little. 

“ Ah! ” said I, “ I wish to goodness you didn’t, then ! ” 

“ Why should n’t I if I like 1 ” she murmured, with eyes 
still far away and something of a little smile round her 
lips. I slipped my arm round her shoulders, and led her 
gently towards the door. 

“Come,” I said; “we have talked enough, let us go to 
bed, and sleep. If so be that — ” 

At the door curtains, I turned a little, saying, — 

“ I have forgotten to blow out the candles. ” 

I went back and blew them out. She waited for me. 
We went on together, I with my arm round her shoulders 
as before, through the dark dining-room, and salon just 
lit with the light from the open door-frame, and into the 
lighter morning-room, where I said, — ■ 

“ Are you afraid of death, Kosy 1 ” 

“ Ho, she said; “ I ’m not afraid of it.” 

(We had passed through the curtains, into the bedroom 
lit with two unshaded candles). 

She said no more, nor did I. And we went on to the 
bed; where I sat her down, and myself close beside her. 
Her hands she put together in her lap. 

“ Would you be afraid to die tonight, ” I said softly in 
her ear, “ Rosy ? ” 

“ No, ” she said. 

“ Will you die to-night? ” I asked, a little evilly. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she said, looking at me. The 
same expression was still on my face, nor did I change it. 

“ Will you die with me — to-night ? ” I said ; “ I am 


250 


A Child of the Age. 

ready to die with you ; although, my dear, as the saying 
goes, I don’t love you.” 

“You are very wicked!” she said, her eyes rounding; 
“ that would be wrong. ” 

“ No ” (shaking my head a little), — “ only tired of it, 
only tired of it ! ” 

Then I looked at her. 

“ And so,” I said, “ that would be wrong? ” 

I took down my hand from her shoulder and stretched 
out my arms backward and yawned. 

“ Be it so,” I said; “ that would be wrong! ” 

I lay awake by her in the dark for a little, thinking about 
my work, and whether I would go on with it, and whether 
I would go on with anything. By degrees my thoughts 
grew to present occurrences, to to-night’s; and then, with- 
out thinking whether she was asleep or not, I asked — her, 
I suppose : — 

“ Why did you get up ? ” 

“ Because I wanted to see you. ” 

T fell into my thoughts again; till at last, “Ah!” I 
said to myself, /' if I were but some poor, striving, struggling 
devil in some country town, and she my brave little wife — 
some poor, striving, struggling devil of a man of letters, 
Avith hopes of some day forcing a callous English world to 
know him as its teacher, and she the brave little wife tliat 
believed in me! Ah, why have I not had to strive and 
struggle? Perhaps I should have become a great man 
some day, then. Life would have been self-sufficing for 
me. I have almost a mind — a mind to throw away all these 
disgust-bearing, despair-bearing golden grains, and go out 
and struggle and strive again. Surely, I was happier as a 
boy in London than. ...” But there was little good in 
talking in this way now, to-night. — I did not ask myself 
why. I left the question alone ; and dozed ; and fell asleep. 
I was awakened by being kissed on the lips. I opened 


251 


A Child of the Age. 

my eyes and looked at Kosy. She was a little sleepy, a 
little languorous, lying with her pretty face deep in the soft 
pillow, and her escaped hair flowing — brown-gold tresses — 
round about her head. The sun was on our feet. A little 
canary she had bought yesterday was singing snatches of 
song in the morning-room. The idea of her solemn bestowal 
of that half-awakened kiss made me smile brightly at her. 
The little canary was singing snatches of song. The sun 
was on our feet. 


III. 

That was the morning of the evening on which I received 
a book and a letter from Mrs. Herbert, enclosing another 
from Starkie, at last ! I read Mrs. Herbert’s first, in order 
to be able to better give myself up to Starkie’s and the book, 
which I guessed was Brooke’s. There was nothing of any 
interest in hers ; a mere report of the satisfactory condition 
of things at Dunraven Place. Then I opened Starkie’s, and 
began reading it slowly. He had caught up Clarkson at 
Zanzibar. Things were not going as well as they might. 
Two months frittered away in taking great pains about doing 
nothing! But they had at last started, and here they were 
on the Continent. Clarkson wanted to turn down to Lake 
Intangweolo, instead of making for Lake Eugenie, to ex- 
plore that block, which was comparatively unknown ; 
whereas the other place was both know and interestless, 
save for the fact that poor old Osbaldistone died there. He, 
Starkie, should like to know what the devil was Clarkson 
going to do in that galere? Get fever or dysentery and 
manure a patch of sand 1 He could not possibly say when 
they might be back; perhaps not at all. He had a faint 
hope that it might possibly be before next year was out. 


252 


A Child of the Age, 

But he could ii’t write any more of this stuff. He was out 
of sorts, — ill the blues. Clarkson seemed determined to 
give his name to a new species of beast, or bird, or die in 
the attempt. They ’d do no good this time. Only another 
instance of wasted time, and wasted treasure, and perhaps 
wasted life. But here was the end, or he would be tearing 
up this miserable stuff. — Mine disgustedly, but truly, 
Oliver S. Starkie. 

I began to consider this letter till it struck me that it 
was odd I had not received it sooner. Then I examined 
the post-marks, and found that it had arrived in England 
in early February. 

“ Damn the old woman ! ” I said, and pulled the paper 
covering off what as I had rightly guessed was Brooke’s 
book, the Book! Bosy asked what was the matter. I 
explained, and, after a little small-talk, took to examining 
the thing. When I had satisfied myself, feeling in a socia- 
ble humor, I began babbling with her, and she, soon bright- 
ening, came to me gladly. W e had a quiet talk about past 
things, one of the, if not the, best talks 1 had ever had 
with her. We went over how she had made me eat the 
grapes and had made me call her Kosy (Miss Bosebud, I 
insisted. She had not had all her own way from the first I), 
and how Minnie (poor Minnie!) had chased the piece of 
paper under the table: and how we had gone out for our 
first walk together when I was so weak, — and stupid. 
(Where was the respectful clerk a good deal better dressed 
and, doubtless, fed, than myself, now V) And how we had 
tea together that other evening in my room, with the fruit 
and the cakes and all the other things, including a sweet 
solemn little owl who would n’t laugh properly once the 
whole time, and then the walk together afterwards. And 
so on. 

And then afterwards, in the bedroom we had a look at a 
certain little round silver locket (chosen in a jeweller’s in 


A Child of the Age. 253 

Edgware Eoad), of which there had been some mention in 
the study, and I repeated dramatically ; 

“ But I shall always be able to keep the locket, you know ; 
and, when I look at it, I shall think of you and give a 
sigh;” (and I gave one) “for — you’ve been — ” 

“ Don’t tease me! ” cried Rosy, with puckered brow and 
a slap on my arm. And I did n’t. 

The next day after breakfast I set upon my work again, 
but could make nothing of it. 1 felt 1 had better go out. 
I went out: down to the Seine and frittered away half-an- 
hour or so looking at books in the book-boxes on the river 
walls. It was a dull gray day, with a certain amount of 
w'ind, north-east wind 1 thought: altogether quite like a 
half-bred London day in early March, before Boreas has 
grown boisterous. 

I lit upon an ill-used copy of a book by an English writer 
whose name I had heard spoken (evilly spoken) of in my 
later London days. I was in the humor for buying the 
book of such a writer, so I bought it and came home with 
it and straightway began to read it. The subject was an 
author whom I had been of late accustomed to read both 
rather frequently and rather carefully. I was struck by the 
number of my own thoughts that T found. Then there be- 
gan to creep over me the sense that 1 had done nothing yet, 
written nothing yet, that is: a displeasing enough sense 
when coupled with another, — that I never should do any- 
thing, write anything; anything, that is, worth the doing 
or reading. I envied this man who wrote with such assur- 
ance of work done. — About which point Rosy came in from 
her afternoon walk and we had tea. 

It often happened that I was silent at meals and she con- 
tent to let me so, but this evening, apparently because she 
saw that I particularly did not care to talk, she kept on ask- 
ing me questions and chattering ceaselessly. For some time 
my sense of duty kept successful guard over my patience 


254 


A Child of the Age. 


and I answered her quietly; but at last I sent my sense of 
duty packing and began to answer her rather irritably : then, 
gradually worked into an aggrieved state by her nervous 
babblement, at last kept a frowning silence. She was de- 
fiant: went on gibbering and laughing with flushed cheeks 
and sparkling eyes, and at last proceeded to tease me. I 
was not in a humor to be teased. I said so. She was 
excited now and not to be stopped, despite that Marie (the 
maid) was in the room clearing away the things .for dessert. 
I kept my frowning silence till Marie was gone, and then 
said, as playfully as I could, that I was rather tired of hear- 
ing her little tongue wagging and wished it would stop still 
for a while. Then came an indignant flare up, to which 1 
made no answer, only looking at the grapes I was eating and 
my plate: then a second indignant flare up, spiced with hot 
reproaches. I expected wet reproaches to follow, and ex- 
pected rightly. She was getting tired of them when, having 
finished my grapes, I got up and went into the study. 

I made an attempt to work, but failed : made another 
attempt, and failed again. I determined I would go out. 
Then, under the influence of a collapsing sense of tiredness 
and sleepiness, thought of bed : but bed meant Rosy, and I 
could not stand her just at present. I went into the dining- 
room. She was sitting knitting, in a chair. I told her that 
I Avas going out, and might not be in till late : to which she 
deigned no answer. I went into the hall and, taking my 
hat and stick, down and out. Which way to go ? where to 
go to? I stood, whirling my stick about, considering. It 
was a beautiful night, clear and cool — no moon, with the 
heavens star-sown. 

There was evil in me. I felt it in a little : and did not 
care to combat it. I walked to the right, a little jerkily 
like an actor. It was not now, “ Which way to go ? ” but, 
“Where to?” 

I began to think of piquant pictures of Grevin’s — dumpy 


255 


A Child of the Age. 

strutting little cocottes of undeniable chic, and smiled at 
the thought. There was evil in me, and I did not care 
to combat it. Names I knew of the supposed haunts of 
said dumpy, strutting little cocottes — Rue Blanche, “ le 
Skating Theatre,” (the pronunciation of which, “ le Skatting 
Theatre,” made me laugh) and the Folies-Bergere. 

I took a cab to the Rue Blanche. 

When I entered the hall there was a certain tremulousness 
in me, chiefly the result of an imperfect sense of wrong-doing, 
and a little, perhaps, of the music and the bright scene. I 
stalked round the rink, not quite daring to openly regard 
any one: in fact, very self-conscious. At last 1 sat down 
at a table, and, having ordered a bock, began to argue with 
myself for a perfect fool. Here was I, who had pondered 
on Life and Death and Time and Space and God, and God 
knows what not, absolutely nervous in a hall tilled with 
harlots and harlot-mongers! What more ludicrous? I paid 
the waiter; drank a little of my bock, and looked about me. 

In five or six minutes I was master of myself : in ten I 
was stalking round the rink again, observing the people with 
interest. I thought I would speak to one of ces dames^ and 
see what she had to say for herself. Variety is pleasing. 
But ces dames had such uninteresting faces, and such putfed- 
out breasts and contracted waists, that I found I had no real 
inclination to speak to any of them. I wandered about for 
half-an-hour or so without seeing any face that attracted me; 
and then went out and (not analysing my motives) took a 
cab to the Folies-Bergere. 

At first sight, I liked the place better than the Rue 
Blanche : the fountains pleased me, and the verdured seats. 
Then I was attracted by a vendeuse of somethings or other, 
who had a finely developed bust and pair of whiskers, quite 
bushy. I stood and began imagining her point of view of 
life and things generally, till, catching my eye, she smilingly 
proffered one of her somethings or other, addressing me. 


256 


A Child of the Age. 

This made me laugh and, laughingly declining, pass on. I 
wandered about once more. The faces of the women seemed 
to me a little more interesting than those at the Rue Blanche, 
hut not interesting enough to be spoken to. 

Once, coming down a staircase, I found myself faced by 
myself in a huge mirror. I paused in my descent for a 
moment, in which I saw my solemn face set above my 
shoulders, squared by my hands being clasped together behind 
my back. The idea of this figure and face stalking about 
among these people, made me grin to myself. 

At last I grew wearied of it, and went away for a long 
walk about the streets. 

When I came home I found Rosy sitting in the study in 
the easy-chair, looking as if she had kept herself awake by 
means of some sort of emotion: I soon perceived, jealousy. 
In a little she began questioning. Where had I been ? why 
was I so late ? I answered her simply. First, I had been 
to the Skating Theatre, in the Rue Blanche, then to the 
Folies-Bergere: and then for a walk. 

Those were had places: had women were there! I 
need n’t have kept her up all this time, and then come and 
told her that ! 

How did she mean that I had kept her up ? Since when 
had she taken to sitting up for me when I went out at 
night % 

She believed that I had been talking with a lot of those 
wome7i / A nd why had n’t I gone home with one and never 
come back here again ? She (Rosy) had always thought it 
would be like this! she knew quite well when I went away 
this evening that I was going after some . . . some one 
else (Tears) : I was a horrid . . . 

I thought the child was ill, and tried to comfort her. She 
would take no comfort. I came to her, intending to try 
more personal comfort. She was up and, with an intense : 
“ 1 hate you ! ... Go away! ” herself went away. 


257 


A Child of the Age. 

After a little pondering, I decided that it would be best 
to let her alone, and composed myself to sleep in the arm- 
chair and another chair for my feet. 

Next morning, Marie, entering to dust the room, was 
apparently the instrument of wakening me from had dreams. 
For a little I did not know whether to grin, or pull a face 
at myself, or take Rosy’s quarrel with me seriously : then, 
observing the sunshine in the room, determined to go out 
and get rid of all these spiritual cobwebs. Dried and some- 
what dirty as I felt, I would not go into the bedroom and 
wash myself with the chance of awakening her. I passed 
into the hall and, taking up my stick, out onto the landing. 
I was going down the first flight of steps, with my mind full 
of thought, when, all at once, there was a stumble ; a fall ; I 
clutching at and a missing of the bannister, and I was lying, 
half-stunned and dazed, on the broad step at the foot of the 
flight. 

Then wrath rose in and hurst forth as I got up in a keen : 

“ Blast ! ” 

This foolery was past all endurance ! I suddenly dropped 
down again. My foot had failed me. The anguish in it, in 
my ankle particularly, was almost intolerable. It turned 
me sick. 

I rolled onto my stomach and face, stiffening my muscles 
so as to bear it without the threatening childish collapse, or, 
at least, moan. After a little I determined I would get up 
— up the flight, into the house. 

With great pain, aided by my stick, I reached the door; 
opened it ; went on into the study, and let myself down in 
the easy-chair. 

There I began to reflect. 

Presently in came Rosy, dressed, but still in the sulks. 

I did not speak to her. I was wondering now whether I 
would send for a doctor for my foot, or no; deciding no. 
Rosy pretended she had come to look for something, and, 
not being able to And it, went out again without a word. 

17 


258 


A Child of the Age. 

I got lip and made my way to the dining-room doorway ; 
then through the dining-room to the salon doorway. She 
was in the salon. I had only a moment’s hesitation. I 
crossed half the salon as ordinarily as I could; but I knew I 
limped a little, and this rather angered me. Then I sud- 
denly thought : Why should I care to disguise from her the 
fact that I am hurt ? and limped altogether. She said noth- 
ing. Once in the bedroom, I rang the hell and went and 
sat down on the bed. 

I got my boot off myself, and Amelie, following my 
directions, bandaged my ankle up in a wet napkin. Her 
final adjusting touch of the bandage extorted a sound of 
some sort from me, and I looked up. Rosy was standing 
by the doorway, watching. I looked down again. She 
went away. 

I ordered my breakfast in the study, whither I proceeded, 
passing by Rosy in the dining-room. My foot was cease- 
lessly painful. 

I ordered a bed to be put up in, what we called, the bath- 
room for me. Rosy came into the study at about five; 
found a book of hers on the mantlepiece just above my head, 
and went out without a word. 

At half-past Marie brought in the tea. Rosy following her. 
Then she poured out a cup; put sugar and milk into it, 
and, taking a piece of cake, retired to the chair in the far- 
window, where she began to drink the one and eat the other 
in silence. As I wished for my cup of tea, I got up and 
poured it out, and, taking a piece of cake, retired to my 
seat again. I determined that I would have dinner in here, 
in the shape of some fruit and bread and milk. 

When she had done her cup of tea and piece of cake, she 
reneAved them. I, after some thought as to whether the pain 
of getting them was worth the candle of partaking of them, 
and the supposed display of my feeling toward her in this 
matter, did not. When she had finished, she put her cup 


259 


A Child of the Age. 

and saucer on the table and went out of the room. I rang 
and told Marie what I wished about my dinner. I was not 
angry or even piqued by Rosy’s proceedings; I was too 
indifferent to be either. The reason why I did not make 
advances towards reconciliation with her was, that I did not 
care to trouble myself so far. 

During the course of the day she contrived what little 
annoyances she could for me ; but with no other effect than 
making me rather amused at her simplicity. “ If you quarrel 
with a woman, ” I thought, “ you must expect this sort of 
thing.” 

Then, when I was in bed, I considered what was the real 
condition of my feelings towards her. Without doubt, they 
were those of complete callousness, and, perhaps, something 
more. There was no “ imperfect sense of wrong-doing ” in 
the thought. It seemed to me to be something little short 
of folly to stay here and be troubled with her. I ought to 
go out into the world and see its ways, so as to prepare 
myself for my work; that work which was nothing else 
than, having by self-culture and observation got an impres- 
sion of things generally, to put down that impression on 
paper. Truth was the object of my work, and, by the very 
fact that I was a quite unprejudiced viewer of the phe- 
nomena of what is called Life, I did not see why I should 
not produce such an impression of things generally “ as pos- 
terity should not willingly let die. ” The idea of telling the 
truth about things was a pleasing one. I could almost 
believe that some day that idea might be of itself a suffi- 
cient incentive to a love of existence. Meantime the con- 
nection with Rosy was passably stupid and tiresome, and 
perhaps even harmful. 


260 


A Child of the Age. 


ly. 

Four days passed. Then it seemed to me to be best to 
put an end to this. 

The reconciliation with Rosy was therefore effected, and 
then there came a flow of gentle tears, soft embracements, 
and the rest of it : all of which I endured in an actively pas- 
sive sort of way, as being to the female mind the necessary 
sequence of a “ quarrel. ” 

The days sped on again. I was for the present content. 
Once or twice, I thought to myself that I should, perhaps, 
have been more content if I had not been content : for indif- 
ference was, I held, to be avoided. But there was always 
this inevitably undecided position of Rosy’s and my relations 
towards one another. One interesting particular I one day 
learned, as it were, parenthetically, from Rosy. Her de- 
parture from No. 3 on that memorable evening, with head 
bent down and hands holding one another in front, was not, 
as I had supposed, to the streets, but to the house of a Mrs. 
Vincent, who owed her money for some work she had done. 
It was some sign of my philosophy (or indifference) that, 
on realizing that the whole of this luckless connection of 
ours rested on a mistake, I did no more than remark to 
myself that it was a pity, and, after thinking about it for 
a few moments, dismissed it from my mind. Nevertheless, 
it came back to me later on, and my philosophy was more 
dubious. 

One afternoon we were having tea together in the study, 
both of us reading or skimming the last batch of illustrated 
boulevard newspapers, when I, hearing a ring at the bell, 
looked up, and said: 

“ What ’s that, I wonder 1 ” 

She suggested that it might be some things which she had 
got at the Bon Marche Magasins in the morning, and pro* 


261 


A Child of the Age. 

ceeded to explain that she had transferred her custom from 
the Louvre to the Bon Marche for some reason or other 
which I did not remark. There came a knock at the door. 
She said, “ Entrez ! ” and Amelie came in with a letter on 
tlie letter-tray and towards me, saying that it was a letter 
for Monsieur. Rosy inquired who had brought it up. As 
I had my upward hand on it, Amelie was answering that it 
was “ Monsieur the Concierge ” who had brought it up that 
very moment, and had said that he was sorry to have over- 
looked it in the morning. A glance at the re-directed ad- 
dress had shown me that it was Rayne’s handwriting. My 
heart went up to the bottom of my throat. 

“ Is it from Professor Strachan 1 ” asked Rosy, as Amelie 
was going out. 

“ No,” I said, striving to be full master of myself. 

She refrained from further question, and I slowly opened 
the letter : 

Dear Bertram, — I should not have written to you, but that 
many things have come upon me. My little son is dead. God, 
in His great Love, saw fit to give him to me, as I thought, for my 
consoling ; and He has seen fit, in His great Wisdom, to take him 
away from me again. God’s ways are not as our ways. 

I do not say that my affliction is not hard, very hard to bear. 
At times I have doubted that I should ever see the good of it. I 
do not deny this. But I pray always for Faith in His Goodness, 
and Faith full and perfect, I am sure, will be given to me before the 
end. Yes, I am dying ! Perhaps it is better so. And yet, I do 
not mean that. My head, you see, is not quite clear now. There 
is something I should like to say to you. Will you come to me ? 
But yet do as you think you ought to, and remember that any wish 
of mine is as nothing in comparison with your duty. I have writ- 
ten too much already. But you will understand. For my head is 
not clear now. 

My husband sends this. He has been very good to me. Re- 
member about your duty. If I do not see you again, I ask God 
to bless and keep you and make you His at last, as I know He 
will. 


262 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Brave heart, ” I said to myself, “ brave heart ! ” 

My eyes stayed fixed on her name for a little : then I 
thought; till my thoughts turned to confusion. 

I half crumpled up the letter in my hands. Some one 
touched me on the arm. I had risen : was standing up, here, 
in the room. It was Rosy. I did not know she was here 
too. 

I looked aside at her ; her cheeks flushed red, a star-gleam 
in her eyes, her brows knit. A vixen. — What did she 
want? 

“ It is from her ! I know. . . it is from her ! — She 
wants you to go to her ? ” (She was panting out her 
words.) 

“ Yes,” I said. 

“ You will go?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You shall not go! Oh, you shall not go! — I will not 
let you go! ” 

I passed slowly by her clenched, upraised hand: then, 
turning, found her close beside me. 

“ . . . My dear girl,” I said, smiling a little evilly, “ she 
is dying ! ” 

I stood, thinking of Rayne. 

. . Won’t you say anything to me?” she cried. 

“ What does she want with you ? What right has she 
with you? You are not hers! — She wants to take you 
away from me. I know her. — But she shall not ! ” 

Suddenly she stepped to me and caught me by the arm, 
crying : 

“ I won't let you go to her! I will not! you shall not 
go ! I will not let you go ! ” 

“ Hey ? ” I said ; “ What are you talking about ? ” And 
looked at her. 

Realizing her to be there, — her, the tool demoniac Circum- 
stance had chosen to undo me with, the plague of a mistake, 


263 


A Child of the Age. 

— her, the red rag flaunted in my face by the thing that 
fleered and jeered because I could not gore horse or man 
again, — I concentrated sudden unutterable hate in my look 
at her. She shrank back. 

“ Ah,” she whispered, shivering, “ don’t! Don’t. Don’t. 
I will let you go. Yes: really, truly, indeed, now, now I 
Only don’t look like that, or I shall shriek.” 

I turned away my face, indifferent : and thought again. 

“ . . . But you will come back ? ” pleaded she. 

“ I have told you, ” I said, “ yes. ” 

“You have told me nothing! Promise me that you will 
come hack. Swear to me — ” 

I went to the paper-cupboard ; opened it, and stood look- 
ing for the time-table. She touched me on the arm. She 
had come after me. I turned to her and said, — 

“ I tell you that I will come back. Now, do not trouble 
me. You see that I don’t want to be troubled.” 

“ Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do ? You will leave 
me ! And I shall never see you again ! You will never be 
the same to me again. I hate her ! ” 

“ She is dying, ” I said, smiling again, “ you won’t have 
to hate her long. ” 

“ You love her ! ” 

“I do not! ” 

“ You do, you know you do ! ” (She caught my hand in 
hers up to her lips.) “ I can’t let you go! ” she sobbed. 

I comforted her in a quiet way, stroking her hair back : 

“ Come, ” I said, “ come, come ! ” And went on, till all 
at once it occurred to me that I ought to have looked out 
the time the night-mail went, and paused. The clock struck 
six. I turned and began rummaging in the cupboard till I 
had found the time-table. I opened and began to study it. 

A pause. 

“ I am . . . very sorry, ” said her soft voice by me. “ I 
didn’t mean to vex you. Will you iov-give me? ” 


264 


A Child of the Age. 


“ I have nothing to forgive you for. ” 

“ And may I pack your things ? ” 

“ You are kind.” 

“ Don’t say that, ” she pleaded, “ don’t say that ! Will 
you give me a kiss, and be friends again ? ” 

I turned round and, with my arm about her back, gave 
her a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised at her child’s 
woebegone face. Then, leaving her, I went to the window 
and at last found out the time of the night-mail. I took to 
walking up and down the room in front of the fire. I saw 
the envelope of the letter with the newspapers on the floor at 
the foot of the easy-chair. I picked it up and considered it. 
A horrible thought came to me : She might be dead ! 

I looked at the postmarks. The letter had taken four 
days to get to me. I cursed Mrs. Herbert to hell. Where 
was the letter? 

I found it in my waistcoat pocket, put there I did not 
know when. 

Marie opened the door. I told her to tell Amelie to be 
as quick with dinner as possible, as I wanted to catch a 
train. Marie agreed and went back, closing the door. 

“I have found your small ^ovt-manteauf said Rosy, 
coming into the dining-room doorway with a noise of the 
opening curtain-rings. “ Will you come and choose the 
things you want, because I ’m not sure ? ” 

We went together. 

When we, or rather I, had finished packing the portman- 
teau, we returned to dinner. The portmanteau was to be 
taken down by the back staircase. 

“ I forgot the flask, ” she said. “ Do you know where it is ? 
You ’d like to take the flask with some cognac in it? It ’s 
such a pretty flask, and you ’ve never used it ! ” (She had 
given it me.) 

“ Yes,” I said; “ to be sure.” And told Marie to go and 
bring it. 


265 


A Child of the Age. 

Marie brought it, and then came the question of the 
cognac. There was none in the house; which liad not 
struck any of us before. I was for not minding about it, 
till I saw that E-osy would be hurt if her flask was not used : 
so Marie was sent down to get some cognac, while Eosy and 
1 went into the study again, not caring for more dinner. 

Then Marie returned with the flask filled, which Eosy 
took from me, and reaching, put on the table. It was not 
yet time to start. We sat in silence till I turned my head 
to look at her seated there with large upward eyes whose 
gaze was far away somewhere. 

“ Are you all right now 1 ” I asked. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I ’m all right.” 

I was sorry for her : somehow as I had been sorry for her 
sitting on the hearth-rug in the fire-lit room waiting for me 
who stood at the small window. I could not help thinking 
of the pity of it, that that mistake had been made, to give 
me to her and her to me. 

I put my arm round her neck and drew her cheek to meet 
my lips. 

“ Eosebud, ” I said, “ Eosebud ! ” 

Then I felt the tears coming soft from her eyes: and the 
memory of a scene rose before me, when I said : — 

“ Why, little Eosebud, you must n’t mind like that. I ’ll 
come back again some day ! ” 

Ah, I had come back again, and had brought her, not a 
bonnet with blue ribbons and a flower that should look so 
real that the butterflies should settle on it, but what she 
wanted — myself ; and also what I had promised with my- 
self, some grapes and bon-bons; and also what I had not 
promised with myself, some thorns and nettles. Alas, alas, 
was she not indeed “ alone in the world, quite alone, as if 
nobody else belonged to her. . . . Good-night, Eosebud, 
good- night ! ” 

“ Well, ” I said to myself, “ there is no good in this. 


266 


A Child of the Age. 

** ‘ The cocks they crew, and the horns blew, 

And the lions took the hill ; 

And Willie he gaed hame again. 

To his hard task and till.’ 

“ I must be off, pippin, ” I said aloud, “ or I shall miss 
the train.” And got up and went across the room — and 
turned, looking at her. 

She rose, and saying, “ I will fetch your coat, ” went out 
through the doorway, leaving me with my mental stretching 
and rubbing of limbs that had been asleep and wakened up 
to the feeling that their blood was sluggish. 

Presently she returned with my great-coat, which I took 
with thanks from her, and then I felt that she felt that 
the final embrace was coming. In a moment it was come. 
She was in my arms, pressing up with a poor little tearful 
face for the soft lips’ kiss. None other kiss than that now, 
none other kiss than that! Oh Rosebud, Rosebud! Then 
our beings, scarce met, parted again ; and I had left her. 

I went down. 

As I got into the cab opposite the door, I looked up at 
our balcony half hoping to see her there. No. Nor at 
the window. 

Once more, as we drove away, I looked up at balcony and 
window. No. I was a fool. 

I thought much on my way to the Gare du Nord. 

When I arrived there I found that I had abundance of 
time. I began to walk up and down the hall, still thinking 
profoundly. At last this came : “ The next evening I 

met the Professor at the Gare du Nord as we had arranged, 
and he, at the end of our walk up and down in the hall — 
There we turned, there he began to speak — commending 
Rosy to my care as a last sudden thought that ...” 

Sudden thoughts came quickly now. I paced up and 
down. A porter with my portmanteau came to me to 
remind me that it was time to be getting my luggage weighed 


267 


A Child of the Age. 

and myself on to the platform. We went up the hall to- 
gether. I looked at the clock. He was right. I made 
one big step forward, and stopped. He passed me, and 
stopped too, but not as I had done. 

“ Thanks, ” I said : “ I shall not go to-night. ” 

“ Good, sir, ” he said. 

“ If you will put that into a cab, ” I said, “ I will be back 
in a moment.” 

“Very well, sir,” he said. 

I went off to the telegraph office, where I wrote on a form : 
“Lady Gwatkin, 22 Balmoral Street, London,” and “B. 
Leicester, Paris,” and in French “I cannot come.” Then 
when the clerk had shown me that he understood it aright, 
I returned to my porter and the portmanteau in the cab. 

When I arrived at the Avenue de Fontenoi, I did not 
look up at either balcony or window, but got down with 
my portmanteau and, having paid the man, went slowly in. 
As the impulse to look up had been denied, so was that to 
ask at the concierge’s if she had gone out. But the con- 
cierge came forth to proffer carrying up the portmanteau; 
and I surrendered it to him. Up, then, I went slowly, 
deliberately, with mechanical limping foot. At the second 
story some one came out, a man, and descended upon me: 
when, through the mutual choosing of first one side and 
then the other, there was a moment’s delay. I cared not. 
Up I went again slowly, deliberately, with mechanical 
limping foot ; till I reached our third story, and the door, 
and had unlocked it, and gone in, and drawn it to quietly. 
What then ? The passage in the red light of the hanging 
oil lamp’s little floating redder core- flame. ... No: not 
to look in at the small window ! In here, into the study. 
Almost dark : no one here. 

Now into the salon. Almost dark too: no one here. 
Don’t call for her, or your voice will unnerve you as a con- 
cession to ghostliness. 


268 


A Child of the Age. 

In the morning-room. Almost dark : no one. 

In the bedroom : no one. 

Will you go into the bath-room? Yes. No one. — Stand 
and think a little. 

Now go back through all those almost dark and empty 
rooms, restraining that cry that is in the top of your beat- 
ing heart. And going back, what an emptiness there is in 
the place! 

It is foolish to feel the presence of the ghostly or some- 
thing visibly unseen here. The matches are on the mantel- 
piece behind the jar. Don’t knock it over, groper. . . . 
Light ? No : darkness I These thin contraband matches are 
better than the stinking sulphurs, but still . . . Out again. 
Damn! 

Now be careful this time. Light the candle. 

It is lit. 

What is the time ? A quarter to nine. Now — A letter 
on the table. 

She is gone ! 

Open and read the letter. Here ; — 

Mr. Leicester, — I see it all now. I told you I would go 
away when it came. The last thing I ask from you is for me 
never to see you again. You will find everything in the house. 
I have only taken the clothes 1 have on and £2 which I had 

when I went with you. You are not to try to find me. If you 
do, you are a coward and no gentleman. I pray God will forgive 
me for my wickedness ; He knows I did not do it for gain, but for 
pure love for you ; that is the only comfort I have within myself. 
I loved you, but what is love and how strong, when through 
suffering, hate takes the place of that’ love. I hate you and I 
always shall. 

R. H. 

I sat down and, with my elbows on my knees and my 
head between my hands, tried vainly to understand it all. 


A Child of the Age. 


269 


V. 

Despite every effort that was made to discover her, Eosy 
remained undiscovered. At the end of a week I made my 
arrangements and crossed over to London, where I felt sure 
I should ultimately have news of her. I had been informed 
by a chief of the Parisian police that either she had got off by 
the very train which I had intended to take, or else she was 
dead. I felt a strong conviction that neither had she got off 
by that train (how was it possible ? ) nor yet was she dead ; 
but at times a horrible idea came over me that she might 
be being detained in some infamous den. This the chief of 
police had confidently assured me was not so : I had, myself, 
wandered about filthy back streets enough in the forlorn 
hope of finding her : had, at last, thinking of Marina, visited 
infamous dens enough, places of hot air and bright light and 
tawdrily-rich ornament, filled with fat and ghastly painted 
naked women who had at first almost terrified me, thinking 
of that awful breathless picture of Juvenal’s Agrippina, 
and then made me sorrowful past tears. And, here in tliis 
London, where my own poor mother had offered her body 
for sale in the public way, what a thought was it to think 
that perhaps I had not persevered enough in that search; 
that perhaps if I had stayed another week, another day, 
I might have found her! I could do no work. As day 
followed day, and still no news either from Parisian or 
London police, I became so feverish at nights that I could 
not sleep. And I knew then, in my dread and anguish and 
horrible, reproachful longing, how dear she was to me — 
how inexpressibly dear — dearer than anything, my darling 
of love ! 

At last, one evening about a fortnight after she had left 
me, sitting in my easy-chair in the study window, trying to 


270 


A Child of the Age. 

read a book, I began to think about the little canary (up 
there now, the little pet, asleep in his cage), singing snatches 
of song, while the sun was on our feet, and, realizing once 
more that all this was not done in a dream, but that she was 
indeed gone from me, might at this moment be in misery, 
might die without my ever seeing her again ! the tears came, 
and then, bowing my head down between my hands, I sobbed 
and wept. These were th”^ first tears I had shed. They 
were a relief to me. I began to think of it as I had not 
yet thought of it, quietly and fully, recognizing the great 
love I had for her and resolute to win the radiant future. 

That night, for the first time since she had left me, I had 
a dreamless refreshing sleep. In the morning I went down 
the river to Greenwich again, and up on to the Heath, think- 
ing of Kosy and Rayne together as I had so many times this 
last fortnight. The place seemed somewhat strange to me 
now : stranger than it had seemed before. I did not go to 
the school and the field where Wallace and I had lain and 
played at “ chuck, ” looking out at times over the dark, 
silver-twining Thames and dusky, far-reaching London. I 
determined that I would find out about Rayne when I got 
back. 

I went to Balmoral Street, and, seeing no assuring sign in 
No. 22 of life or death, rang, and inquired of a maid who 
opened the door, if Lady Gwatkin was any better ? There 
was no surprise in her face. Rayne was not dead. My 
breath flowed out almost in a sigh. Lady Gwatkin was a 
good deal better. She had gone with Sir James into the 
country. 

It was enough. Further words I did not hear. I went 
away almost joyfully. She could be dead to me henceforth 
without a troubling thought. 

A few days later, I saw Strachan, and spoke about the 
Expedition, Starkie, Clarkson and Brooke, again. Worked 
with a will at my classics, and at my spiritual classics as 


A Child of the Age. 


271 


well: struggled against despondent and not-to-be-dismissed 
terrors and horrors about Rosy: was once almost setting 
out for Paris, with a notion (illogical enough) that she was 
there, but a little reflection showed me that my arrangement 
of things was best. She was in London I was sure. She 
would probably write to me in Paris (perhaps not knowing 
my London address). My man would telegraph at once: 
I would be with her at once. But a sudden idea that my 
man might, after all, be negligent, unsettled me. 

The afternoon after my consideration of the matter in this 
light I spent in a long walk and debate with myself. 

When I returned home, looking as usual on the hall 
table for the longed-for telegram, I saw one. (My heart 
started.) I picked it up: came quietly into the study and, 
at the window, opened it. 

She was found. 

I threw up my face and laughed! Found! found! 
found ! found at last. 

A letter from her. This : — 

I cannot give you up. I am ill. Do come to me. I am sorry 
for it. It was wrong of me. Will you forgive me, and come? 

R. H. 

“ Forgive you ? Come 1” 1 said, laughing, “ Oh, little 
Rosebud, I will forgive you for forgiving me ! I will come to 
you, and keep you, and — ” Ending in laughter and tears. 

To have found her again! To know that I had not . . . 
Nay, I knew nothing yet! And she was ill. 

How long it took for the gold-incited hansom to get to 
the place! How long the Anglicized Italian woman took 
to tell me where she was ! But upstairs I went at last : up, 
up, to the very top of the house, the dusty, dingy, attic. 
She was there. 

I knocked softly at the door and, on her voice saying that 
I was to come in, went in, and stood for a moment looking. 


272 


A Child of the Age. 


I had but seen her pale worn face on the pillow before she 
had started up with a wild cry. And then I was holding 
her in my arms, and she me, silently. 

In a little I felt how she squeezed me in her old dear 
child's way, so quietly, pulling me in to her, and I bent 
back my head so as to look at her face. But she would not 
let me : turning round her head and pressing it to my neck, 
in her old dear child’s way. It seemed a dream that we 
had ever been away from one another. And then all at 
once she kissed me on the lips, such a long kiss; and hid 
her face again, and sighed contentedly. And so we re- 
mained in one another’s arms some time, — in perfect 
silence. 

At last I began to think : but had no more than begun 
when her breast heaved, all her body heaved, before the 
sound of the cough came as a relief to it. I feared that my 
holding her might increase the effort, and made a little move 
to loosen from her, but she would not. Feared indeed: 
there was fear in me still. 

“ Rosebud, ” I said, when I was sitting by her on the bed, 
stroking her hand, she lying back on the pillow looking at 
me, “ you ’ve got a very bad cold. ” 

“ Yes,” she said; “I — ” And went off into another fit 
of coughing, the third she had had since I came in. 

“ How did you get it ? ” I asked. 

“ Got it! ” she said with a smile, “ caught it! ” 

“Well — ” I began, and stopped. I was determining 
that she should be out of London before that night. 

And so she was. — We went down together to Mickle- 
hurst, a place I had once heard of as sunny and with a deep 
blue sky. The child seemed very contented, quietly con- 
tented, dreamily contented, somehow contented as I did not 
quite like her to be. The patience with which she bore her 
convulsive fits of coughing seemed to me strange. Once I 
caught myself thinking of a dying monkey I had seen in the 
Baris streets. 


273 


A Child of the Age. 

Arrived in the hotel, albeit I hesitated a little, I deter, 
mined that I would go and bring a doctor to see her at once. 
And, having made her comfortable in the window of a room 
that looked over the blue, winding, seay river, with its 
girdling darkened mountains, over which the sun was set- 
ting in mellow golden warmth, I went down and inquired 
the name and address of some doctor. I seemed to be 
drinking in the clear, pure air as I walked along. 

I found the doctor’s house, and the doctor; and brought 
him to see her. He reported a bad cold, cautiously adding 
that he would come again and see her on Saturday, (This 
was Wednesday.) I accompanied him down to the hotel 
door. I rather liked his face : he had a little gold light in 
his eyes somewhere, perhaps only something to do with the 
sun there. I asked him one or two questions about her 
which he answered simply. She had caught a bad cold: 
that was clear. Perhaps it was nothing more: perhaps 
again it was; perhaps even it might develop into congestion 
of the lungs. She seemed in rather a low state of health ; 
but he would see her again in a few days, on Saturday, and 
then he should be able to tell me if there was anything. 
I said, — 

“ Thank you ; very well, be it so. My name is Leicester. 
We shall probably be staying here for some little time.” 

And so we parted. 

Rosy spent a bad night with the coughing. She did not 
care to go out, although the day was delightfully sunnily 
warm, but stayed in an easy -chair by the open window looking 
over the blue, winding seay river and the girdling mountains, 
all set in the deep blue enamelled firmament. I left her with 
a book for an hour in the morning and went down on to the 
shore; and again, late in the afternoon. Her cough grew 
worse towards evening, and at last it struck me to go out 
and get her some sweets to suck to try and stop it. I 
brought in a large packet of divers sorts, which pleased her: 

18 


274 


A Child of the Age. 

and we sat by the fire, which «she had wished should be lit, 
and talked quietly and happily about ourselves in the past. 

This night was worse than the last, and the next day 
than that which preceded it; and so with the next night. 
Two or three times during this last, after a long fit of con- 
vulsive coughing, she brought up some sticky, rusty-colored 
stuff, with thin streaks of blood in it, that I examined in 
the candle-light, and having examined, felt a renewal of 
that indefinable fear that had entered me when all her body 
heaved before the sound of the cough came as a relief to it. 
As I lay back wondering about this, she all at once said; 

“ I think, dear, I *m going to die. ” 

I was startled. 

After a pause : 

“ What makes you think that ? ” I said. 

After another pause : 

“ I wanted to die ! I knew I was catching it all the 
while, and I did n’t care: I did n’t stop it a bit! That was 
because I wanted to die. But when I found how ... I 
think God is going to punish me for it.” 

I turned over, and kissed her on the cheek. 

Serious, ” she said, moving her head a little and looking 
at me, “ serious 1 ” 

“ Quite serious, ” said, I beginning to smile. “ Quite seri- 
ous, ” and kissed her again and was silent. 

That inspection of the handkerchief ultimately decided me 
at breakfast to go and find the doctor again : which I did, 
but he could not come till later. 

Then Kosy was informed that she would have to go to 
bed again, and perhaps have to stop there a little. I at once 
suspected congestion of the lungs, whatever that precisely 
meant. 

As the doctor and I went downstairs together I cate- 
chised him. He said that she had pneumonia. I inquired 
the precise meaning of pneumonia. 


275 


A Child of the Age. 

“ Inflammation of the substance of the lungs. ” 

“ Was it dangerous? ” 

“ Sometimes. ” 

“Fatal?” 

“ Sometimes. ” 

“ How long did it last ? ” 

“ Three or four days, in good cases ; more generally a 
fortnight or so.” 

I asked him a few more questions, and then he took up 
the word, and told me what would and what might be re- 
quired to be done. And so we parted again. 

I came upstairs to Eosy with a feeling as if there was 
going to be a species of campaign undertaken. The first 
thing to do was to find out if she minded leaving the hotel. 
She did not. Then I went out to observe the house that 
the doctor had recommended to me. 

It was rather a cottage than a house. I liked it. It had 
a small garden, bright with flowers, in front of the dining- 
room, a long, thin room with two garden-windows opening 
onto a little lawn. I came back with a description of it, 
wliich, having pleased her, sent me off to take the place at 
once; and back to bring her to it. 

By lunch-time we, I and the landlady and the servant, 
that is, had the dining-room turned into a bed*room — light, 
airy, and comfortable. 

The doctor came in the afternoon again. Further direc- 
tions were given, and he left us, saying that he would leave 
the prescriptions at the chemist’s as he went home. By 
tea-time everything was ready. Eosy had throughout re- 
mained quiescent, except that, as she was coming into the 
house, she noticed some red daisies in the bed under the 
window, and plucked one, saying : “ A pretty thing ! ” and 
for a moment stood looking at it, while I stood looking at 
her. 

I had everything to hand — inhaler, medicines, milk, 


276 


A Child of the Age. 

beef-tea; and the kettle, with a long brown-paper spout to 
it, so as to keep the atmosphere moist with the steam, on 
the fire, from. whose immediate heat and light she was 
sheltered by the bed-curtain drawn out and tucked under 
the mattress. I felt no fear now. The sense of her lying 
there as she was, seemed to admit of no feeling but calm ten- 
derness. 

The cough was very troublesome : more violent, more as 
it were ineffectual. She was very thirsty, and complained 
of the warm milk and beef-tea. Orders had been left that 
it was to be warm, and so of course she would have to drink 
it warm. I had to coax her to it like a child. The same 
with the inhalation. At first she, half sleepy, would not 
inhale, but kept moaning, and turning her mouth away from 
the pipe, till I bantered her into taking twenty pulls to 
show she was not afraid of it, and then turned the twenty 
into thirty, and the thirty into fifty, and so on up to a 
hundred, and far over (I deceiving her by dropping back 
the number several times). So the requisite ten minutes 
inhalation was achieved. The poor child could get no sleep. 
She kept up a low moaning all the while, occasionally sitting 
up with her chin on her knees, and the lower part of her 
hands turned round in her eyes. Once she suddenly looked 
up at me and said : 

“ Don’t you believe I got this as a punishment for wanting 
to die ? ” 

“No,” I answered, “ I don’t. I think you got it as the 
result of catching a severe cold. ” 

“ But I did it — I did it on purpose ! ” 

“ The cold would n’t know anything about that. And 
you must n’t talk any more. ” 

She had a violent fit of coughing. When it was done 
she said; 

“ I do wish you ’d talk to me. I can ’t get to sleep. I 
like to hear you talking! ” 


A Child of the Age. 277 

“Very well,” I said, “I ’ll tell you a story. Will that 
do?” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ But lie down there. I don’t like you 
sitting up. ” 

I lay down on the extreme edge of the bed, with my 
head on the bolster, and began my story. It was the story 
of Undine. Often I had to stop on account of her coughing. 
Once the story was so broken into by a fit of it, that I 
hoped she would forget, or not care to hear any more, and 
would try to go to sleep. Not so. She began to talk about 
what had happened to her in London, and would not brook 
interruption. At last, I let her say what she had to say. 
She told me of her life at Wiltshire Crescent. Then, sud- 
denly, after a pause : 

“ I was glad when you came, ” she said slowly. I had 
a most horrid dream of you. I dreamed you were dead, 
and that I saw your coifin carried by men to the cemetery. 
I thought I was in such grief about parting with you in 
anger, that I would have given half my life to have parted 
with you friendly. ... I know I have been very wicked in 
doing what I have, but I do believe God will forgive me. 
I did love you ! I was also in trouble as to whether you 
were safe in heaven, and I thought I wept so bitterly, and 
my grief was so great that, while I was following to see 
where you were buried, I was obliged to kneel down to pray 
God to take you to heaven, and to forgive all, at the same 
time promising I would be good all the rest of my life, in 
hope to see you there, — when I awoke and found it all a 
dream. And I was pleased, but it upset me for days, and 
at last I made up my mind to write to you, as I could not 
rest.” 

She had another fit of coughing, and I got up to give her 
some milk. After that I thought she had forgotten the 
story, but she requested its continuance, and so I continued 
it, with the necessary breaks, till four in the morning, when 
she fell asleep. 


278 


A Child of the Age. 

Not even the orders of the doctor prevailed over my dis- 
inclination to awakening her at five for her medicine. She 
herself awoke a little later: the medicine was given; and at 
her request the story continued; but only for a little, for we 
could not get on with it “ one little hity ” as she said, owing 
to the growing frequency of her fits of coughing. She was 
quite exhausted by the time the sun came into the room 
over the top of the hedge ; that is, about seven o’clock. I 
was tired, hut not sleepy : and less tired when I had washed 
myself. Then she fell asleep again. 

The doctor came about eleven. He sanctioned her drink- 
ing her milk and beef-tea cold if she really did not like to 
drink it warm; and Rosy’s silence said that she did not like. 
I went with him to the door and into the garden, where I 
asked him if he could not give her some opiate 1 He shook 
his head. I said that she was being torn to pieces by the 
cough, and that I could not help thinking that it was dan- 
gerous to let her get as exhausted as she had been a few 
liours ago, and was yet. He said : 

“ I dare not give her anything. ” 

The words and their tone settled the matter. I asked 
again if it was possible to give her any stimulants now. 
He said: 

“No; best not. Go on just the same as yesterday with 
the inhaler and the poultices, and the milk and beef-tea. 
That is all.” 

I said that as fast as I gave it her, she brought it all up 
again : purposelessly. Then, after a proposal about a nurse, 
which I refused, he left me. I thought no more of him. 

At about five she would have me lie down on the edge of 
the bed and try to get some sleep; and, with the promise 
from her that she would awaken me in an hour, when it 
would he time for her to inhale again, I closed my eyes. 
She deceived me. It was seven when I awoke: was 
awakened by what was, probably, an unusually violent fit 


279 


A Child of the Age, 

of coughing. I scolded her, my thin-faced little darling, as 
I got the inhaler ready : she, between her coughings, smiling 
at me. 

After tea — I sitting by the bedside, holding her hand 
and thinking — she all at once quite opened her eyes and 
looked at me. 

“ Where do people go to when they die ? ” she said. 

I looked at her dear child’s eyes, but did not answer her. 

“ Do tell me, ” she said, in a child’s aggrieved tone, rump- 
ling her brow, “ Don’t tease me ! Tell me true ! ” 

After a pause, I answered her; 

“ I believe that they go into the earth and the air from 
which they came.” 

“ Yes, ” she said, “ hut that ’s not their spirits. What do 
their spirits do 1 ” 

“ Their spirits, too, go into the earth and the air. ” 

She shook her head : 

“ No, ” she said, “ their spirits go up ” — (looking up) — 

up into heaven ! ” 

I lifted her hand, and bent my head, and kissed her hand 
softly. 

“ But don’t you think sO too? ” she said. 

“No,” I said, still bent over her hand; “but” (looking 
up at her and smiling), “ what does it matter what I think, 
dear ? ” 

She began to cough, and went on for a little. Then ; 

“ Don’t you think, ” she said, “ that good people go up to 
heaven when they die ? ” 

“ Don’t talk any more in this way! ” I said, getting up 
and sitting on the bed by her, “ or I shall — Well, I shall 
have to stop you someway.” And I put my arm round her 
shoulders, and drew her head to mine. 

“ Ah,” she said, drawing her head back so as to look at 
me, “ but don't you ? ” 

“ Don’t I what ? ” 


280 


A Child of the Age. 


Her brow rumpled. 

“ Don’t tease me! ” she said. “ You must tell me! ” 

“ Very well,” I said, “ I will tell you, then. I don’t think 
anyone goes up to heaven, dear, however good they are, for 
I don’t believe there ’s any heaven to go to. ” 

“ But what becomes of them, then ? ” 

“ They go into the earth and the air, from whence they 
came.” 

“That’s horrid!” she said, “I don’t — ” and began to 
cough again. 

I put my arm round her shoulders, and leant my cheek to 
hers that was wet. 

“ What is it ? ” I said, “ Why are you crying 1 ” 

In a little : 

“I was thinking,” she said, “that God wouldn’t let us 
see one another then, perhaps, because we had been so sin- 
ful, and because you — because you talked in that way. If 
you didn’t talk in that way, perhaps He would, you know; 
because I did love you so ! ” (She had turned and thrown 
her arms round my neck.) “Oh, I could nH do without 
you ! I did try, I did try ! But you were so much to 
me ! ” Her trembling lips could scarcely finish it. 

At last : 

“ Oh, Rosy, ” I said, with a low, choking voice, “My 
little Rosebud! ” 

“ Hush ! ” she said, “ Hush, dear. Don’t trouble about 
it afterwards. I don’t think God ’ll be so hard upon us ; 
I don’t think he will ! And it was n’t your fault, this. 
It was all my fault ; I did it ! I knew I did ! But I don’t 
mind now. Kiss me, dear; kiss me. It wasn’t your 
fault.” 

I kissed her, and straightway the cough caught and shook 
her poor body through and through; but she would not 
have me take my arms from round her. And as I felt all 
this, the thought in me turned to utter fierceness. 


281 


A Child of the Age. 

We talked no more of these things, except that Rosy told 
me that last night she had dreamt of being smothered by 
wreaths of smoke, and could not wake me. We talked of 
the dear hours in the past, and of the dearer that were to 
be in the future — by snatches ; for her cough was almost 
ceaseless, and, it seemed to me, more violent than last night. 
She had, apparently, forgotten about the story. 

But, as the night wore on, she became worse. I had 
great trouble to get her to take the inhalation. She kept 
up the low moaning all the time, as she had done on the 
first night; occasionally, too, sitting up as before, with her 
chin on her knees, and the lower parts of her hands turned 
round in her eyes. I did not leave the bedside for a mo- 
ment. Now and then she fell asleep, but the low moan- 
ing did not cease, except when she muttered incoherently. 

The slow hours passed. I must have dozed. I awoke 
with a start. She was struggling violently. I saw that, 
and her swollen, livid face, and eyes strangely prominent 
with strange, clear brightness. Then I knew that she 
wanted me, and, in a moment, was across the bed, with one 
arm round her body and the other loosening her nightdress 
at the throat; but she had caught it, as it were, by chance, 
and rent it down wide open, just as the button was coming 
undone. I held her steadily up, despite her violent, down- 
ward struggles. She knew I was holding her. She could 
not get breath; she was suffocating. Her chest seemed 
rigid. I looked at her livid face again, her bright eyes, her 
stretched nostrils. 

Then, before I scarcely knew what had happened, except 
a tightened effort of her body in my arms, she had ceased 
struggling. 

I looked at her face : looked long, and at last, wildly. I 
shook her gently ; lowered my arm to shake her again. Her 
head fell back with upward, staring eyes. I thought, She 
is dead, she is dead. What did it mean ? No . . . No . . • 


282 


A Child of the Age. 

I gathered her close in my arms, kissing her warm pure 
throat, talking to myself; and let both of us lie back in the 
soft pillows, I with my cheek on her warm, pure breast. 
Ah, better to sleep now without more words ; better to sleep ! 
Think no more of that phantasy. I was ever given to such. 
As a boy I could not quite tell sometimes whether I was in 
a dream or awake ; I could not quite tell sometimes whether 
I had seen things in dreams or in the vital air : So now ! 
But that was enough of speaking. Better to sleep now 
without more words; better to sleep! 

“A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; she 
shall lie all night betwixt my breasts. I charge you, 0 ye 
daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and by the hinds of the 
field, that ye stir not up nor awake my love till she please.” 


THE END. 


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GEORGE SAND’S NOVELS 


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way into the human heart ; and whether it is at peace or at war is the same 
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Roberts Brothers propose to publish a series of translations of George 
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■which are worth translating, and among these is “ Mauprat,’’ — though by 
^110 means the best of them. Written to show the possibility of constancy 
in man, a love inspired before and continuing through marriage, it is itself 
a contradiction to a good many of the popular notions respecting the 
author, — who is generally supposed to be as indifferent to the sanctities 
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iSaxony. . . . The translation is admirable. It is seldom that one reads 
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ANTONIA. 

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GEORGE MEREDITH’S NOVELS. 


TIT 

THE ORDEAL OF R'CHARD 
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EVAN HARRINGTON. 

HARRY RICHMOND. 

SANDRA BELLONI. 

VITTORIA. 

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LE S. 

RHODA FLEMING. 
BEAUCHAMP’S CAREER. 

THE EGOIST. 

DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS. 
THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT, 
AND FARINA. 

THE TRAGIC COMEDIANS. 


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are an intellectual mine, and will repay careful study. — Boston Traveller. 

The London “Athenaeum’’ says of “Diana of the Crossways”: “It is a 
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the world, and it is touched with generous romance ; it is rich in kindly comedy, 
and it abounds in natural passion ; it sets forth a selection of many human ele- 
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as life itself.” 

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of youth and nature that can never be forgotten ; scenes that flash before your 
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above all, in the company of a Genius. — Daily News. 

Genius of a truly original, and spontaneous kind shines in every one of these 
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It was not until 1859, when he had reached the age of thirty-two, that he pro- 
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brim with earnestness, wit, strength of conception. Meredith’s stories generally 
end happily; but this one is profoundly tragic. I have read many of his chapters 
without being moved, even when the situation in itself must theoretically be ac- 
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THE VILLAGE RECTOR. 

By Honore de Balzac. 

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. i2mo. 
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Once more that wonderful acquaintance which Balzac had with all callings 
appears manifest in this work. Would you get to the bottom of the engineer's 
occupation in France? Balzac presents it in the whole system, with its aspects, 
disadvantages, and the excellence of the work accomplished. We write to-day 
of irrigation and of arboriculture as if they were novelties ; yet in the waste lands 
of Montagnac, Balzac found these topics ; and what he wrote is the clearest 
exposition of the subjects. 

But, above all, in “The Village Rector” is found the most potent of religious 
ideas, — the one that God grants pardon to sinners. Balzac had studied and 
appreciated the intensely human side of Catholicism and its adaptiveness to the 
wants of mankind. It is religion, with Balzac, “ that opens to us an inexhaustible 
treasure of indulgence.” It is true repentance that saves. 

The drama which is unrolled in “The Village Rector” is a terrible one, and 
perhaps repugnant to our sensitive minds. The selection of such a plot, pitiless 
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show how, through God’s pity, a soul might be saved. The instrument of mercy 
is the Rector Bonnet, and in the chapter entitled “The Rector at Work” lie 
shows how religion “ extends a man’s life beyond the world.” It is not sufficient 
to weep and moan. “That is but the beginning; the end is action.” The 
rector urges the woman whose sins are great to devote what remains of her life 
to work for the benefit of her brothers and sisters, and so she sets about reclaim- 
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order, which gives grace to Veronique, she is like the Madonna of some old panel 
of Van Eyck’s. Doing penance, she wears close to her tender skin a haircloth 
vestment. For love of her, a man has committed murder and died and kept his 
secret. In her youth, Veronique’s face had been pitted, but her saintly life had 
obliterated that spotted mantle of smallpox. Tears had washed out every blemish. 
If through true repentance a soul was ever saved, it was Veronique’s. This 
work, too, has afforded consolation to many miserable sinners, and showed them 
the way to grace. 

The present translation is to be cited for its wonderful accuracy and its literary 
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By Honore de Balzac. 

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under the title of “Memoirs of Two Young Married Women.” The 
theory of Balzac is that the marriage of convenience, properly regarded, 
is far preferable to the marriage simply from love, and he undertakes to 
prove this proposition by contrasting the careers of two young girls who 
have been fellow-students at a convent. One of them, the ardent and 
passionate Louise de Chaulieu, has an intrigue with a Spanish refugee, 
finally marries him, kills him, as she herself confesses, by her perpetual 
jealousy and exaction, mourns his loss bitterly, then marries a golden- 
haired youth, lives with him in a dream of ecstasy for a year or so, and 
this time kills herself through jealousy wrongfully inspired. As for her 
friend, Renee de Maucombe, she dutifully makes a marriage to please her 
parents, calculates coolly beforehand how many children she will have and 
how they shall be trained; insists, however, that the marriage shall be 
merely a civil contract till she and her husband find that their hearts are 
indeed one ; and sees all her brightest visions realized, — her Louis an 
ambitious man for her sake and her children truly adorable creatures. 
1 he story, which is told in the form of letters, fairly scintillates with 
brilliant sayings, and is filled with eloquent discourses concerning the 
nature of love, conjugal and otherwise,' Louise and Ren6e are both 
extremely sophisticated young women, even in their teens ; and those 
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